Renaissance
by PsandQs
Summary: It is 1986, and Harry and Connie are in Moscow on Operation Renaissance. Harry is developing suspicions about the operation as there are increasing indications that it has been blown. But who can he turn to for help to confirm those suspicions? A re-imagining of the old operation mentioned in episode 7.7.
1. Chapter 1

**PART I**

 _It's the oldest question of all, George. Who can spy on the spies? Who can smell out the fox without running with him?_

John le Carré, _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy_

 _Intourist Hotel discotheque, Moscow  
23 November 1986, late night_

The relentless drumbeat reverberated around Harry's skull, a sensation only strengthened by the multi-coloured strobe lights. He stood in the crush of bodies, only deigning to make a token movement every few seconds, but the Russian woman he was dancing with was undeterred. She gyrated against him enthusiastically, eyes half shut in ecstasy, and he was torn between jealousy at her ability to derive such pleasure from this mindless activity and irritation at her inability to notice his apathy. _Where was Connie?_ He couldn't take much more of this. His eyes strayed to the bar – perhaps another shot of vodka would help dampen the god-awful musical onslaught. No. He'd had one too many already, and he was supposed to be working. Another would push him over the line from mildly inebriated to drunk, and that was dangerous. He was on an operation in enemy territory, and a loss of focus could cost someone their life. Whilst he might not be too bothered about his own safety, it would be irresponsible to endanger Connie and the operation. It had been his brainchild, Operation Renaissance. To try and trick the Russians into thinking that they had a mole within MI-5.

The Russian turned her back to him and ground her bottom against his groin. He stared over her head towards the wall, unmoved by her ministrations. He experienced no physical reaction whatsoever, and distantly wondered whether that was because he knew she was probably KGB – most of the Russians in this room were, they were the only ones allowed to mingle so freely with foreigners – or whether he should ascribe it to the evisceration of his heart and his sex drive by his recent messy divorce. Then again, it could simply be the alcohol. Isn't that why people drank, after all? To take the edge off? To dull sensation? Yes, better to go with that; then at least the vodka was good for something. With savage satisfaction he determined that he would have another in celebration as soon as his business with Connie was concluded. The Russian pressed closer to him and he suppressed a sigh; would this bloody song never _end_?

It was then that he became aware of the young woman in his peripheral vision. She stood against the wall, loosely attached to the group of people he'd earlier identified as Swiss embassy staff. He swivelled his head slightly to bring her into better focus, and it took him a few seconds to identify the reason she had attracted his interest. It was her vaguely uncomfortable expression, her sense of isolation. She was part of the group and yet somehow alone, and he stared at her, fascinated. A kindred spirit? The disco lights revealed her to him in coloured staccato images, as though she had been caught on a film reel that was running at the wrong speed. Dark hair, pale face, petite build. Shy smile, good legs. Nice breasts. She lifted a hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture somehow endearingly awkward, and he was blindsided by a jolt of yearning so potent it made him catch his breath. He looked away, disturbed. She had to be at least ten years younger than him, for God's sake. The ink was barely dry on his divorce papers and here he was, ogling a younger woman. Was he already becoming that most horrid of clichés – divorced at thirty-three, drinking too much, chasing after younger women? Christ. He needed that shot of vodka urgently now, but before he could act on this impulse the Russian turned back to face him and threw her arms around his neck. She said something, rubbing herself suggestively against him, and even though he did not catch any of the words over the din of the music, he had no doubt that she had just brazenly propositioned him. He pushed her away, suddenly claustrophobic. " _Nyet_ ," he said, desperate to get away, to get to the bar. She grabbed his arm and tried to hold him back, but he shook her off. " _Nyet_!" he reiterated more forcefully and began to fight his way through the throng. When he looked back, she was staring after him with a furious expression.

The moment he reached the bar and signalled for the bartender, Connie materialised at his elbow and smiled at him serenely. For some reason it annoyed him. He felt off-kilter and alien, as though he had no grip on the situation he found himself in. It scared him; no matter how bad things had got in his private life previously, he could always count on his assuredness as an intelligence officer. He was good at it – brilliant even, according to many, and it had kept him going through previous personal crises. If he lost that too, now, he would have nothing. He would _be_ nothing. The bartender finally came over and he pushed his money towards the man. "Vodka." Connie ordered a gin and tonic. Intelligence officers would ordinarily stick to the local poison so as not to attract undue attention, but Connie had always refused to conform. This time he didn't mind too much: they _wanted_ the Russians to notice her.

The bartender moved away and Harry turned his attention to the woman next to him. "You're late," he grumbled, and she threw him a shrewd look. They knew each other well – had served in Belfast together, and she was no fool.  
"And you're still charming the ladies, I see," she needled.  
Her remark stung, as she had known it would; she was well aware of his acrimonious divorce and that it was Jane that had left him, and not the other way round. Irritated, he yanked more notes out of his pocket and shoved it towards the bartender, who had returned with their drinks. "Better make it a bottle," he snapped, deriving perverse satisfaction from Connie's peeved expression.  
She leaned into his shoulder and spoke close to his ear. "For God's sake, pull yourself together. Drinking yourself into a stupor every night is not the answer."  
"No?" he retorted. "Would you rather I shag a KGB agent and whisper all our dirty little secrets in her ear?"  
Whilst he spoke, she felt his feather-light touch as he dropped the microfilm into her pocket. Even half-drunk and depressed, he didn't falter when it came to the job. One had to admire that. "You know what your problem is, Harry?" she countered. "You can't just have sex for fun. It has to have _meaning_. You need an emotional connection to get it up." She grabbed her drink and half-turned away. Over her shoulder she added, "Lighten up. You're in Moscow. You're supposed to be obvious this time. London _wants_ you to screw the locals, just as long as you don't actually fall in love with them and get turned."

She ambled away and he did not watch her go. He kept staring straight ahead, painfully aware of the clink the bottle made as the bartender placed it in front of him. Connie was an excellent intelligence officer, one of the best he'd ever known. Cunning, clever and ruthless, she did not shy away from the darker aspects of their work, and she was the obvious choice to be the bait for Operation Renaissance. But sometimes even he was taken aback by how much of a bitch she could be. After an eternal pause he moved, picking up the bottle and sliding it into his pocket.

As he headed to the door he glanced towards the wall, but the young woman was no longer there. Perhaps that was just as well.

0o0

He chose to walk back to the compound. All foreigners were housed in such sealed-off estates – they could not stay wherever they wanted. Furthermore, most of them were constantly watched, followed everywhere they went. On this particular operation he was pretending to be a journalist, and as soon as he left the hotel his minder fell in behind him. Tonight it was the one he had dubbed Igor because one shoulder was always higher than the other. There were three that took turns following him around, and sometimes, just for the hell of it, he would lose them, and then watch them panic and scramble around until they picked him up again. But not tonight. Tonight, he did not have the energy for pointless games. Within minutes his face was numb from the cold. It had snowed earlier and the clouds still hung low; they were in for more throughout the night. Winter in Russia was quite unlike winter anywhere else, he'd found; it seeped right into your marrow no matter how well prepared you were for it. No wonder so many Russians drank stupendous amounts of vodka – at least the fiery alcohol prevented your blood from freezing in your veins.

He walked slowly, head down, pondering. The operation seemed to be going well despite his distraction. He supposed he had Connie to thank for that. She could have reported him, his excessive drinking, but instead she had simply got on with the job at hand. She had made contact with an attractive KGB operative named Vasily Popov, and over the last few weeks had allowed him to 'turn' her. The brush-pass in the discotheque had provided her with her first 'intelligence' to provide to the Russians, so everything was on track and proceeding smoothly. Harry had no illusions over how she had hooked Popov – Connie was a good looking woman and had no scruples about using her body to lure a target to her. He could hardly point fingers; he had done the same in the past. Still, he was glad that it was someone else's turn. Unlike some of his colleagues, he derived no pleasure from seducing a target; in fact it left him feeling empty and a little grimy afterwards. Perhaps there was something to Connie's spiteful psycho-analysis, he reflected sourly. Perhaps he did need an emotional connection to enjoy sex.

He had reached the bridge over the Moskva River and stopped halfway across. The river flowed below him, dark, half-frozen and sluggish, and he leant against the icy parapet to watch it for a while. The Soviet empire was crumbling; beset by economic problems and political upheaval, General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev had introduced his _glasnost_ and _perestroika_ programmes to try and quell the growing dissatisfaction among the masses, but instead the increased freedom had only strengthened the fault-lines. Harry had judged this to be the perfect time for Operation Renaissance – the KGB would not be unaffected by the political turmoil, and would be fighting for their survival like all the other political structures. They would be anxious for a major coup to re-establish their credentials. If they could cultivate a mole within MI-5 and regain the access they had once enjoyed to the British intelligence organisation through Kim Philby and the Cambridge Five, that would boost their bargaining power immeasurably. And as Harry knew all too well from personal experience, spies found it hard to look a gift horse in the mouth. If an opportunity presented itself to recruit a major asset, most operatives would ignore any warning bells that might be clanging in their heads – such as the nagging suspicion that the recruitment had been just a little too easy.

These thoughts took him back to the mess in Berlin two years earlier. He had suppressed such suspicions then, and even now he was still not sure whether his doubts were justified, or simply another by-product of his feelings of guilt over the whole sordid episode. A wave of self-disgust washed over him afresh. He knew unequivocally that it had been the last straw in the collapse of his marriage. Yes, there had been his infidelity with Juliet Shaw, but then again Jane was not exactly innocent in that department. They could perhaps have overcome that, if not for his inability to leave his work and its impact on him at the office. If one was almost never at home, it became even more important to really _be_ there when you were; not only in body, but also in mind and spirit. And he had simply never managed that. Ever since his baptism of fire in Belfast and the death of Bill Crombie, his close friend and colleague, he had withdrawn emotionally from Jane and the children, frightened that he might contaminate them with the darkness he dealt with on a daily basis. So by the time Elena Gavrik had come along, he was crippled by guilt on all fronts – about deserting his children every time he went into the field, about betraying Jane by having to seduce the wife of a KGB operative, and later about actually falling for his asset, only to abandon her to the Russians when the whole edifice came down around their ears. And the boy. Sasha. He hastily suppressed that most painful of thoughts. It was only with time and distance that he came to realise that he had mistaken guilt for love with Elena, but by then it was too late to save his marriage. Jane had had enough of living with a ghost, and he couldn't blame her. She deserved better, as did Catherine and Graham. The thought of his children caused a lump to rise in his throat, and he took the bottle of vodka from his pocket and opened it. Anything to make the pain go away. He took a healthy swig, yearning for oblivion, and turned to look back at the Kremlin, starkly lit against the dark sky on the bank of the river. Lifting the bottle towards it in salute, he mumbled, "Cheers, from one crumbling wreck to another." The vodka left a fiery trail down his throat and he took another swig before he turned away and resumed his journey across the bridge, picking up his pace in the hope that he would get home before the effect of the alcohol took full hold.

He had only progressed a few metres when he noticed the woman standing on the opposite bank, and a shock of recognition surged through him. It was her, the young woman from the discotheque, and his heart-rate sped up. She was not alone, however. There was a man with her, older and distinguished looking, and as Harry watched the man grabbed hold of her and pressed himself against her. Disappointment knifed through him. Her arms lifted and he expected her to embrace the man, to kiss him, but instead she pushed against his chest ineffectually. It took a few seconds for Harry to grasp the situation, to realise that the man's attentions were unwelcome, but when he did he moved towards them swiftly.

0o0

The snow-covered pavement dampened his footsteps and they only registered his presence when he spoke. "Everything all right?" he asked in English – he was supposed to be an English reporter, after all. Their heads jerked towards him and he kept his focus on the man, and as soon as their eyes met there was mutual recognition. He quickly stepped away from the woman as Harry advanced, and out of the corner of his eye Harry saw the look of relief that flickered across her face.  
"Fine," the older man said as he gave the woman a warning look, and she nodded and murmured agreement. "We work together," he added.  
Harry stood his ground, his head swivelling between them, and his posture made it clear he had no intention of leaving. The other man hesitated for a few seconds more before conceding defeat. He turned away and said shortly over his shoulder, "Don't be late for the meeting tomorrow."  
The woman had begun to rally. "I won't," she responded to his retreating back, and Harry did not miss the flash of anger in her eyes as she looked after him.

They stood together in silence until he was out of sight before Harry turned to her. "You're English," he asserted and she looked at him in confusion.  
"I'm sorry?"  
"Your accent - you're English," he repeated. "I thought you were Swiss."  
Her head tilted in a wordless query and he hurried on. "I recognise the oaf. Dieter Hoffman, Cultural Secretary at the Swiss embassy."  
She relaxed somewhat, but was still eyeing him warily. "Oh. Er, yes, I'm from England."  
"So am I," he confided with a cheeky smile, the alcohol lessening his usual reserve, and she smiled involuntarily in return.  
"Yes, so I noticed," she said dryly and turned to move away, the gesture a firm dismissal.  
"Let me escort you to the compound," he said quickly, eager to spend more time with her. He didn't even know her name yet. "In case old Dieter is lurking around a corner somewhere."  
She turned back and looked pointedly at the bottle of vodka in his hand. "I can look after myself, thank you," she declared, and he felt his face flush in embarrassment. But even so he refused to be put off.  
"Of course you can," he responded promptly, "but that doesn't mean you should have to." She hesitated and he pushed on. "Besides, it's nice to hear the Queen's English for a change."  
She smiled at that. "All right."  
He beamed back at her. "Harry," he said as he stuck out his hand, "journalist."  
"Ruth. Translator," she responded and briefly shook the proffered hand, and he had to resist the impulse to hold on for longer than was decorous.

They walked on, chatting, and he made sure to leave a respectable gap between them. She told him that she had been in Moscow for about a month now, working as a translator for the Swiss embassy. She was fluent in French, German and Russian and had looked for a job where she could use these skills.  
"So you work for Hoffman in particular?" Harry asked, trying to simultaneously keep track of the conversation and his footing on the slippery sidewalk. Those extra swigs of vodka were unfortunately beginning to take effect.  
She glanced at him and ignored the question. "How do you know him?" she asked instead, and he shrugged.  
"You get to know people in the compound after a while."  
That seemed to satisfy her and he was relieved; he wasn't sure he could convincingly deflect awkward questions in his current state. But all the same he wanted to warn her that Hoffman wasn't quite what he pretended to be. "Listen," he began carefully. "You should be aware that most embassy staff in Moscow play more than one role." He looked at her to check whether she grasped his meaning, and as he did so his foot slipped. Thankfully there was a wall next to him and he put out a hand to steady himself. The world swayed and he did not dare move, cursing himself, the vodka, Jane and the whole sorry mess his life had become. Ruth stopped as well and surveyed him critically, and he could not hold her gaze.  
"You're drunk," she observed, and his humiliation was complete.  
"Yes, I'm afraid so," he agreed forlornly. No use in denying the obvious and compounding his misery. "When in Rome and all that," he added, trying to sound flippant but failing horribly. She just looked at him, unimpressed. At least the world was stabilising again. And suddenly he wanted her to know. "I got divorced two months ago," he confessed, "and it's…difficult. I miss my children." He looked at her then, and was surprised to see compassion rather than condemnation on her face.  
"I'm sorry," she said quietly and stepped forward to take his arm. They continued on, arm in arm, and he could not find the words to express his gratitude. But for the few minutes it took to reach the compound, his soul was at peace.

And perhaps that was the reason why, when they parted in front of her apartment, he blurted out: "Ruth, be careful. Dieter Hoffman is a spy."

 _tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

**PART II**

 _He met failure as one day he would probably meet death: with cynical resentment and the courage of a solitary._

John le Carré, _The Spy Who Came In From the Cold_

 _Western compound, Moscow  
23 November 1986, late night_

Ruth stared at him, aghast. " _What_?"  
Harry rubbed his forehead. He really did not want to repeat it. It had been a monumental breach of security and he did not want to compound his mistake. "Just be careful," he repeated as he began to retreat.  
But she would have none of it. She grabbed his arm and her grip was surprisingly strong. "No. You don't drop a bomb like that and then simply walk away! Why do you think Hoffman is a spy?"  
Now he was in quite a pickle, and he had only himself to blame. Connie had been right again, to his chagrin; he really should pull himself together and stop drinking so much. "It doesn't matter," he evaded, "just take my word for it, okay?"  
"You're kidding, right?" she exclaimed, and her grip did not relax. "What proof do you have?"  
He wished she would keep her voice down. The world was beginning to spin again and, desperate to get away, he snapped, "For God's sake, I'm an int-" Some distant remnant of self-preservation kicked in and he shut his mouth, mortified by his growing indiscretion. He'd almost blurted out that he was an intelligence officer, and that he had sat across the table from Hoffman during liaison meetings between the Swiss and MI-5. What the hell was wrong with him? He took a deep breath and counted to five before he dared speak again. "I'm an investigative journalist," he amended, rather proud of the save, "and it is my job to know these things. So please-"  
She overrode him, her gaze locked on his face. "Switzerland is neutral; why would they place a spy in their embassy-"  
It was his turn to interrupt her with a bark of derision. "Oh please, Switzerland hasn't been neutral since they helped the Nazis hide away their ill-gotten gains during the Second World War. And don't be naïve; every country in the world has interests to protect, neutral or not, and they all resort to spooks to do so."

There was a flash of anger in the grey eyes that watched him so intently. "I'm not naïve," she said in precise syllables, and he was aware that, just like he always used to do with Jane, he had once again managed to say exactly the wrong thing. It really was a talent – he barely knew the woman and already he'd succeeded in insulting her. He sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily.  
"Sorry. I didn't mean-" He gestured vaguely and sighed again in helpless surrender. "I think it's best I leave now, don't you?" He tugged his arm gently, and this time she let him go. He began to back away once more. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask whether he could see her again, but he didn't. The expression on her face made it quite clear what the answer would be, and he honestly couldn't blame her. He had made the worst possible first impression, and all that was left to do was crawl home, curl up on the sofa and feel sorry for himself. Without another word she turned and disappeared into her apartment, and he was left standing alone, staring after her as the snow began to fall from the sky.

0o0

 _24 November 1986, morning_

He struggled through the fog to wakefulness, and the first thing he became aware of was a splitting headache. Served him right, he thought morosely. The second thing he registered was that he was freezing, and that his back and neck were stiff. The events of the previous night came back to him gradually and he groaned in embarrassment. After leaving Ruth's, he had made it to his own apartment without incident and collapsed on the sofa. He was still there, his overcoat drawn over him in lieu of a blanket, but it did not cover all of him and his extremities were icy. He needed a hot shower, but he was afraid to move, all too aware that it would only increase the pounding in his head. Eventually he scraped together the necessary courage and gingerly swung his feet to the floor. After another long pause he heaved himself upright and headed to the bathroom. On the way there he passed the bottle of vodka sitting on the kitchen counter, and it was still half-full. That, at least, was a minor victory. On the previous occasions he'd given over to the desire for oblivion he had polished the bottle.

He turned up the water as hot as he could handle and stood under it for an eternity, pondering his many sins. He would have to apologise to Ruth, of course. It felt like that was all he did, of late – apologise to some woman or another that he had disappointed. Jane, little Catherine, Elena, even Juliet, who had not been best pleased when he'd broken off the short-lived affair. And now Ruth. He was sick of it. It was time for the vicious circle to end. He could not change the past, but he could fare better in future and, as the scalding water flowed over his head he vowed to do just that. He would continue to mourn the end of his marriage for a long time to come, but he would take the lessons to be learnt from it to heart and move on. It was time to stop wallowing in self-pity.

He was chewing on a piece of black bread along with his coffee when the doorbell rang. When he opened the door a scruffy, shifty-looking youth stood outside, and Harry belatedly remembered that he had ordered something from the black market. "Evgeny," he acknowledged his contact. "Did you get it?"  
" _Da_ ," the youngster said, holding out an envelope as he surveyed the man before him. His face split into a grin. "You look like shit."  
Harry grumbled something unintelligible in response, and as he took the envelope an idea came to him. He told Evgeny to wait, then found a piece of paper and scribbled a message on it. He slipped it into the envelope and handed it back to the young man along with a fistful of roubles. "Take that to the Swiss embassy, and deliver it to a woman named Ruth. She works there as a translator."

The contents of that envelope had been meant to help Connie further ensnare her target, and now he had given it away as an apology to a woman he barely knew. Even so, he did not feel too guilty about it. Connie would not have appreciated it anyway – she detested ballet. He would get her tickets to the circus instead.

0o0

Ruth stared out of the window of the bus transporting them to the embassy, but she did not notice the drab streets. The snow had been replaced by grey sleet and the pavements were devoid of pedestrians. There was the occasional vehicle passing them from the other direction, the tyres throwing up dirty sludge onto the side of the bus. She had not slept well. Who would, after the night she'd had? The man named Harry had planted a seed in her mind and she worried at it from every perceivable angle. Could it really be true that Hoffman was a spy? And how did this Harry know? He had not answered that question to her satisfaction, not by a long way. The more she thought about their weird conversation, the more she was convinced that he had lied to her. Yes, he'd been drunk, but not to the point of incoherence. So why had he been so evasive? And what exactly was the lie he'd told: was it the accusation against Hoffman, or was it about himself? She was inclined to lean towards the latter. But which part of his life story had he lied about? She was certain that it was not the divorce – his devastation when he had confessed that had been raw and real. His job, then? He had hesitated when he'd told her that he was an investigative reporter…

Harry the English journalist. She couldn't quite decide what to make of him. He'd come to her rescue, and he hadn't made any advances of his own. Chivalrous, then. A gentleman. Except for the fact that he'd been drunk. Was that a regular occurrence, she wondered, or a temporary one because of his divorce? He hadn't shown any signs of alcoholism, and she was well versed in those. Her step-brother, Peter, was an alcoholic, and she knew what to look for: the shaking hands, the bloodshot eyes, the fine veins in the cheeks, the red skin. This man had shown none of these, so perhaps it had been an occasional indulgence. His eyes had been incredibly sad when he'd confessed about missing his children, and she could only imagine how painful that must be. To be honest, she had found him an endearingly bumbling rather than an irritating drunk, and wondered what he would be like under normal circumstances. Maybe she would get the opportunity to find out, seeing as they were housed in the same compound.

The bus turned through the embassy gates and she directed her thoughts to a more pressing problem – Dieter Hoffman. She had no idea how to act towards him. Until the previous night he had not shown the slightest interest in her, so what was she to make of the sudden attempt to kiss her? And how far would he have tried to push things if they had not been interrupted? It was a scary thought. She was not one of those women who were regularly accosted by men – too shy and not beautiful enough for that. Or perhaps they were intimidated by her intelligence. Either way, it meant that she had virtually no experience with men to draw on. As she got off the bus she resolved to take care never to be alone with Hoffman again.

0o0

 _One hour later_

She was immersed in the translation of a Russian directive towards foreign embassy staff when her telephone chirped. "There is a package for you at Reception," the security guard informed her and she frowned. She was not expecting anything.  
"Can you sign on my behalf and I'll fetch it later?" she asked, loath to interrupt her work.  
"The messenger insists that he must deliver it to you in person. Sorry."  
Her curiosity piqued, she took herself downstairs to the public area of the embassy. As usual, there were quite a few people milling around, but the security guard caught her eye and waved her over. A scruffy youth stood in front of the Reception counter and the guard pointed to him. He had an envelope in his hands and she approached him apprehensively.  
"Ruth?" he enquired, the Russian accent strong, and she nodded. He thrust the envelope at her. "Please to read message inside," he instructed in broken English. "I wait."  
She eyed the envelope suspiciously. "Who sent you?" she asked, but he merely grinned insolently and pointed at the envelope. "You read. I wait." It was clear that no amount of arguing would move him, so she lifted the flap gingerly and peeked inside. There were two tickets, and a slip of paper, which she drew out and folded open.  
 _Dear Ruth_ , it began, and she did not recognise the handwriting, _please accept these in apology for last night. I fear I made a bit of an arse of myself. I hope that you enjoy them._ It was signed simply, _Harry_.

She smiled, her mind conjuring up his lovely voice as she re-read the note. Finally she turned to the tickets, and her mouth fell open when she realised what they were. Tickets to the _Bolshoi_ ballet, for the opening night of _Giselle_. With the legendary Irek Mukhamedov dancing the main male part. And not just any tickets – these were in one of the private boxes. They must be worth a fortune, and she was overwhelmed by the gesture. She couldn't possibly accept them. Could she? She adored ballet, and it was one of her dreams to see the _Bolshoi_ perform. But it was too much and besides, she hadn't really made any friends here yet, so who would she take along? At that moment she became aware of the messenger hovering at her elbow, and a solution came to her. Suppressing her misgivings that this might be a very bad idea, she took out a pen and scribbled a return message on the slip of paper. She slipped it back into the envelope and gave it to the youngster again, who looked at her in astonishment. In order to avoid any confusion, she addressed him in Russian: "Please take it back to the man who sent you."  
He shook his head in disbelief. "You're crazy, lady," he scoffed. "Those are the hottest tickets in town."  
Ruth glared at him in annoyance. "Just take it back, will you?"  
He sighed and nodded sorrowfully, feeling sorry for Harry. The poor bugger was about to get another kick in the balls.

0o0

By the time she got back to her office she was in a panic, convinced that she had made a big mistake. But she had no way of reaching the messenger, to call him back. "Idiot," she scolded herself. She was so pre-occupied that she failed to notice the man standing outside her door until she was almost on top of him. "Oh!" she exclaimed involuntarily, her heart leaping into her throat and making any further conversation impossible.  
"Miss Evershed," Dieter Hoffman said calmly, "I would like a word." He stepped into her office and waited for her to follow suit, then closed the door behind her. So much for her resolution not to be alone with him. She sought refuge behind her desk in the hope that the solid barrier would dissuade him from making any advances. He could hardly fail to see her apprehension, so he got straight to the point. "I wish to apologise for last night," he stated, then added after a beat, "it won't happen again."  
Her shoulders relaxed a fraction, but she still eyed him warily. He showed no sign of leaving, so obviously there was more to this visit than the apology. She nodded, her throat still closed by fear, and he continued. "The man from last night, do you know him?"

It took her a second to follow the shift in the conversation, but when she did the alarm bells clanged loudly in her head. Harry's voice came to her, earnest and urgent: _Ruth, be careful. Dieter Hoffman is a spy_.  
"What's it to you?" she hedged, seeking refuge in belligerence.  
Hoffman smiled disarmingly. "I just wondered. You're new here, and I wanted to ensure that you understand that just because a man is from your home-country, that doesn't necessarily make him trustworthy." He took a step closer and dropped his voice. "Here in Moscow, Ruth, most people aren't what they appear to be." He stared at her to make sure she had absorbed the warning, before turning on his heel and walking out of the office.  
She stood frozen in place, her gaze locked on the door he had closed behind him, and tried to make sense of what had just happened. First Harry had warned her about Hoffman, and now the Swiss had warned her against Harry. What the hell was going on?

0o0

Harry got back to his apartment just before 12:00 after another fruitless morning spent at the Ministry of Oil Refining and Petrochemical Industry. It was the same every day – he went to request an interview with the Minister, the administrators stalled, jerked him around and sent him from pillar to post, only to eventually inform him regretfully that the Minister could not see him today after all. He didn't mind as much as the real journalists who joined him every morning – he was only there to justify his cover. Still, the ability of the Russians to hinder and impede was maddening.

He had just closed his door when there was a knock, and he opened it again to find Evgeny leaning against the wall. Wordlessly the Russian offered him an envelope, and Harry frowned. Deep down he knew what it was, but even so he queried, "Is it the circus tickets?"  
"No," the youngster said simply, and disappointment overwhelmed Harry. She had rejected his apology. He was caught by surprise at the wave of regret that rolled over him; why did her opinion matter so much?  
"Did she say anything?" he asked, and Evgeny shook his head.  
"She wrote a message," he explained, nodding at the envelope in Harry's hands.  
"Right," Harry said a touch forlornly, and the Russian smiled in sympathy. He liked the Englishman, enjoyed working with him, and he was good for business. Unlike the one at the embassy, who sometimes asked Evgeny to supply things the Russian was not entirely comfortable with.  
"My uncle has many women," he informed Harry with a sly wink. "I can organise one for you-"  
Harry balked. He was well aware of Evgeny's extended family, most of whom were involved in one or other illegal activity. "I'm not interested in your uncle's mangy prostitutes, Evgeny," he said firmly, and the youngster shrugged, not in the least offended.  
"Fine, but it wouldn't cost you anything. None of those women will refuse a chance to go to the _Bolshoi_. And there are some very pretty ones – good enough for Central Committee members…" He looked at Harry hopefully, who shook his head again.  
"Piss off, will you? And get me those circus tickets. I want them by tomorrow." With that he closed the door resolutely in the young man's face.

He walked over to the sofa slowly and sank down on it, feeling strangely empty. With a sigh he extracted the slip of paper from the envelope and read her message.  
 _Dear Harry_ , she began, and he was thankful that she would at least be polite in her rejection. He reluctantly read on and stopped breathing. Fearful that he had misread, he ran his eyes over the words again, slowly and meticulously this time. When he realised that he had not made a mistake, that the note said exactly what he thought it did, a slow smile spread across his face. He re-read it one more time, purely for the pleasure of it:  
 _I can only accept if you will agree to accompany me?  
Regards, Ruth_

 _tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

**PART III**

 _Survival, as Jim Prideaux liked to recall, is an infinite capacity for suspicion._

John le Carré, _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy_

 _Western compound, Moscow  
24 November 1986, midday_

Harry sat with the note in his hand, unable to believe his luck. She wanted to see him again. A feeling of unadulterated joy enveloped him and he basked in it, trying to remember the last time he had felt like this. Probably three years ago, when he had first held his new-born son in his arms, resolving once again to do better by Jane and the children. That resolution hadn't lasted long, unfortunately, as a year later he was in Elena Gavrik's bed, convincing himself he was in love with her. He sobered, these remembrances bringing his lingering doubts about that operation to the fore once more. Had it been too easy, his recruitment of Ilya Gavrik's wife? He looked down at the note as Ruth's face swam before his eyes, young and open and earnest. Was she, like most foreigners here in Moscow, not quite what she seemed? With a muttered curse he reached for his coat. He would learn from past mistakes, and he would bloody well not repeat them.

0o0

 _UK Embassy, Moscow  
Half an hour later_

Jools Siviter eyed his visitor uncharitably. The MI-6 representative had been ordered to render assistance for Operation Renaissance, but that did not mean he had to like it. If the operation was a success, Harry Pearce would get all the credit, and if it failed, it would soil MI-6's backyard and make it all the more difficult for them to operate in Soviet territory. Either way Jools would get nothing out of the deal. "What can I do for my little sister this time?" he enquired snidely, but Harry did not rise to the bait. Siviter never let an opportunity pass by to remind Harry that MI-5 was the inferior Service, the unglamorous one. It was MI-6 who ran around all over the globe, wheeling, dealing, stealing, shagging and buggering their way into the secrets of other countries, whilst MI-5 could only operate in Britain. He knew that it annoyed Siviter that Harry had been involved in some of the bigger and important MI-6 operations in the last few years, and usually he didn't hesitate to remind Jools of that, but today he did not feel like playing these petty power games. He was on a mission.  
"I need to use your secure line, Jools. In private."  
"Mmm," Jools responded as he studied the man before him. "Not in trouble again, are you Harry old bean?" he asked sweetly, and Harry gritted his teeth. Siviter really was the most frightful pompous arse.  
"Today, if you don't mind," he pressed, ignoring the MI-6 man's attempt at fishing.  
Jools raised his hands in surrender and stood. "Right. I shall go and get a cup of the horrendous swill they claim to be tea in these parts. Don't take too long, old man."

Harry waited until the door had closed behind him before he moved behind the desk and reached for the red phone. He removed a small gadget from his pocket which he clipped to the mouthpiece, then dialled the number in London. There was a series of clicks on the line as the international connection went through, followed by a faint ringing. He was convinced that the Russians deliberately caused interference on these secure lines, so that one had to shout to make oneself heard at the other end. He had a notion of the KGB sitting in the building across the street with microphones, trying to pick up the raised voices, and hoped that MI-6 had been smart enough to sound-proof the office. Eventually a familiar voice came across the wire to his ear. "Hello?"  
"Malcolm," Harry answered and swiftly added, "butterscotch."  
"Ah, okay…" Malcolm's faint voice responded, and Harry waited until there was a further series of clicks on the line. The MI-5 techie had devised the little apparatus that Harry had attached to the mouthpiece, and he knew that Malcolm was now doing the same on his end. He understood very little of the technical babble Malcolm sprouted with such enthusiasm; all he had grasped of the explanation about the gadgets was that it put an extra layer of encryption on their discussion. Harry was by nature a suspicious man, and he always worked from the assumption that even people on his own side might want to listen in on his conversations. He suspected that Siviter recorded all calls on this secure line, but Malcolm's device would ensure that MI-6 would only hear gobbledygook.  
"Go ahead," Malcolm said, and Harry took a deep breath. He felt slightly guilty about doing this, but it was necessary.  
"I need you to run your eye over someone for me. Quietly. Ruth Evershed." He spelled it. It had taken him only ten minutes to find out what her surname was from the Swiss embassy.  
"Is that a real name or a nom de plume?" Malcolm asked.  
"I don't know. Quick as you can, please," he urged, and Malcolm sighed. Harry could virtually hear the long-suffering eye-roll on the other side.  
"Of course. I'll just drop all the other important stuff I'm busy with, shall I?"  
"Thank you Malcolm," Harry responded heartlessly and disconnected before the techie could object. He sat for a moment, pondering what he had just done, and was surprised at how fervently he wished that she would come out clean.

0o0

 _Western compound, Moscow  
Early evening_

By the time Ruth got home she had tied herself into knots. What had she been thinking, inviting Harry the journalist to go with her to the ballet? She knew almost nothing about him – he could be a mass murderer. Maybe he would say no, she thought as she pushed open her door, and she was worrying about nothing. But then her eye fell on the note lying on the floor, and she knew. Gingerly she picked it up and read:  
 _Dear Ruth  
If it takes me going with you to get you to make use of the tickets, I will gladly do so. I'll pick you up at seven on Friday.  
Harry_  
"Oh God," she groaned, "what have I done?"  
And yet, at the back of her mind, she was unexpectedly happy that he had accepted. The realisation brought her up short. Where had that come from?

0o0

 _UK Embassy, Moscow  
25 November 1986, early afternoon_

Harry stepped into Jools Siviter's lair with trepidation. He had been summoned, and he wasn't sure why. It was too soon for Malcolm to report back, so it had to be something else. Worry churned his stomach – had something happened to Connie? Was the operation blown? He could not afford another disaster like the one in Berlin; surely his career would not survive that.  
Jools looked up as Harry entered. "Ah, the prodigal son," he smirked and Harry's heart sank. If it pleased Siviter this much, it could only be bad news for him. The MI-6 officer stood and rounded his desk. He only spoke when he was uncomfortably close, taking pleasure in towering over the other man and looking down on him. "The powers that be in London want a word," he announced with relish. "They will call on the secure blower in-" he drew back an elegant cuff and peered at his watch, "three minutes exactly." He stared down at Harry for a few seconds more, reluctant to stop gloating, before he moved towards the door. As he walked away he purred, "Methinks Harry has been naughty again, tsk-tsk…" His laughter drifted down the corridor as he ambled away.

"Insufferable shite," Harry grumbled and slammed the door none too gently. Christ, what had he done now? Had Connie reported his drinking? He could think of nothing else that would require a dressing-down from London. The red phone chirped and he snatched it up. "Pearce," he barked, determined not to give an inch. But instead of the DG's voice yelling at him, it was Malcolm's that said calmly, "Butterscotch."

Once Harry had the device in place, he said, "Malcolm? Jools implied the DG wanted to speak with me."  
There was a satisfied chuckle from the other end. "Ah yes, our Mister Siviter is too easily fooled." Harry shook his head and smiled as Malcolm continued. "I have your report on Ruth Evershed."  
Harry's smile disappeared. "That was quick."  
"Yes well," Malcolm explained, "most of the work has already been done for me. GCHQ has had a look at her."  
A weight settled on Harry's shoulders. Was she a plant? Was that why she had asked him to go with her – was she working for the Swiss? Or even the Russians? Or was she here because she was hiding from the authorities, a common criminal perhaps? Steeling himself, he asked, "What has she done?"  
There was a startled silence before Malcolm responded. "Oh! Er, nothing actually. They're interested in recruiting her, and I can see why. A very impressive young woman, highly intelligent. Speaks five languages and is learning three more. No skeletons in the closet, apart from a step-brother with a drinking problem. They approached her under one of their cover corporations, and she's already done all the psychometric tests. She scored extremely well in the analytical categories. They wanted her to start straight away, but she asked for a gap year to improve her Russian before she takes up their offer." He paused, then added, "She still has no idea that's who she'll be working for – she thinks it's a translation firm that approached her."

The weight lifted from Harry's shoulders and he could breathe again. She really was exactly who she had claimed to be. Careful not to let his elation simmer through he asked briskly, "You're sure they didn't miss anything?"  
"Positive," Malcolm answered immediately. "In fact, I am so sure that I think you should try to do a bit of poaching. We desperately need an analyst, and her talents would be wasted on GCHQ."  
That was high praise indeed from the techie and Harry closed his eyes in relief. Ruth was clean. "I'll see what I can do, thank you Malcolm."

As he walked back to the compound, he couldn't help but whistle all the way.

0o0

 _Swiss embassy  
Late evening_

Ruth sat behind her desk, trying to convince herself that it was time to go home. The last bus to the compound would leave in half an hour and if she weren't on it, she would have to take a taxi. The embassy discouraged its employees from using the local transport, claiming safety issues. But Ruth secretly wondered whether they were rather concerned that the KGB would steal someone's briefcase on the Metro or something even more sinister. She shook her head at the direction her thoughts had taken; when had she started to see spies lurking behind every bush? It was ridiculous, surely; the KGB had no reason to spy on the Swiss. Just like the Swiss had no reason to put intelligence personnel in their Soviet Embassy, right? Harry's voice came into her head then, admonishing her not to be naïve, and she knew who had put all these fanciful ideas about spies in her head. She sighed; tomorrow evening she would go to the ballet with this man who talked so glibly of spies and international espionage, as though these things were an everyday occurrence. How did a journalist know so much? Surely the whole idea of espionage, the raison d'etre one might say, was to keep such matters secret. It had become a matter of urgency to her to find out more about the journalist, but she had no idea how to go about it. She didn't even know his surname. The whole day she had toyed with the idea to confront Dieter Hoffman and ask him about Harry, but something stopped her – some instinct that told her this would be a very bad idea. But what other avenues did she have?

At that moment she saw the cleaner come out of Hoffman's office, carrying a striped plastic bag, and inspiration struck. She swiftly removed her own striped bag from the shredding machine and moved towards the cleaner. It was a lady she had spoken to on a number of occasions and she engaged her now as she dropped her bag onto Hoffman's. They chatted for a while until Ruth suddenly exclaimed, "Oh! Goodness." She hopped from foot to foot in agitation and the cleaning lady looked at her in concern.  
"What's wrong?" the elderly woman enquired, and Ruth smiled in embarrassment.  
"I met this man in the discotheque the other night, and he gave me his phone number. I fear I've shredded it inadvertently." She looked at the bags glumly, before suddenly brightening. "Maybe I can paste it together again?" she mused aloud.  
The cleaning lady looked dubious, but nodded all the same. "Worth a try," she agreed, and watched indulgently as Ruth took back her bag and retreated to her office. Such a nice young girl, she thought with a smile; never too busy to have a chat. She hoped that she'd find what she was looking for.

0o0

 _Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow  
26 November 1986, early morning_

Harry stamped his feet against the cold and rubbed his gloved hands together vigorously. His breath misted in the watery light as he glanced at his watch again. They were late and worry began to germinate in the back of his mind. He suppressed it – there were a number of reasons why they could be late. The most obvious was that it was winter in Moscow, and the transport infrastructure was notoriously bad at coping with it. He turned his thoughts to that evening instead, and warmth and anticipation spread through his chest. He was going to the _Bolshoi_ with Ruth Evershed. She intrigued him, this young woman who had taken a gap year after university, but instead of going to one of the sunny former colonial outposts to lie on the beach and serve drinks in a bar, she came to Moscow to improve her Russian. It was unusual. Different. And he had always liked people who swam against the tide, who did not conform. Perhaps because he was wont to do that himself. She was _clean_. His relief at that news had not yet dissipated – it had somewhat restored his confidence in his own judgement. In the wake of the Berlin fiasco he had begun to question his professional decisions, and that was dangerous. A hesitation in the field could bring disaster, and he was determined to provide better support to Connie from now on. The previous night he had carefully gone through everything he knew about the current operation, to make sure he hadn't missed anything that would endanger her. And his unease had only increased. Hence his presence in this freezing tomb.

Connie was scheduled to meet with Vasily Popov at seven this morning, and Harry had decided to eavesdrop. It wasn't that he did not trust Connie, but sometimes one was too close to notice the danger signs, as he had found out to his cost in Berlin. He would have to do that for her. The _Novodevichy_ cemetery was home to a number of famous dead Russians and was also, as Evgeny had informed him cheerfully, often used for nefarious purposes, such as smuggling, and meetings between the perpetrators of these activities. And of course the young man had yet another 'uncle' who worked at the cemetery and could show Harry the best hiding places. So early this morning the 'uncle' had led him to this empty mausoleum. It was set on a slight rise and from here he had a clear line of sight to the grave of Anton Chekhov, where Connie was set to meet Popov. He had planted a listening device in the snow next to the headstone, and now held a receiver in his hand. Earphones were slung around his neck and a tape recorder waited at his feet, ready to capture the conversation for later analysis. He was thankful that he had lost his minders a few times before for fun; the fact that he had done so this morning would hopefully not raise any red flags as a result.

Movement out in the cemetery caught his eye and he watched as Popov strolled towards the meeting place. He was clad in a long black coat and fur hat, and his hands were tucked into his pockets. He seemed unconcerned, unwary, and Harry's unease grew. Normally assets were skittish when approaching a meeting spot; there was inherent danger in being seen with an intelligence officer from another country. Popov reached the grave and lit a cigarette, looking around idly. Harry held his breath, even though he knew Popov could not see him through the tiny slit the smugglers had made in the marble wall of the mausoleum. Minutes later Connie approached from the opposite direction, and Harry slipped on the earphones before carefully pointing the long, thin receiver through the slit.

Popov straightened and his eyes raked the path behind Connie cursorily. "Any problems?" he asked without preamble, and Connie shook her head with a hint of irritation.  
"Relax, will you? No-one suspects a thing."  
She was good, and Harry watched in admiration as she gazed at the Russian with a flirty smile and squeezed his arm.  
But Popov was not so easily placated, and he looked at her warningly. "You underestimate your own side at your peril," he cautioned, and Connie's gaze hardened instantly.  
"Believe me, that is the last thing I'll do. It's my neck on the line, after all. But I'm telling you, no-one is suspicious."  
The Russian tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "How can you be so sure? Harry Pearce is not a fool," he asserted, and Connie snorted derisively.  
"Harry Pearce is a wreck. He might be brilliant under normal circumstances, but the sad bastard is useless since his wife left him. He wouldn't notice if I photo-copied the secret documents right in front of him and handed them to you."  
Harry smiled wryly. The words stung, but he could not dispute their veracity. At least the end of his marriage had been good for something – it had made it easier to bamboozle the Russians.  
"Besides," Connie continued, "we have history, and he trusts me. That is his one weakness – he wants to trust his close colleagues implicitly, and that makes him blind to any treachery within his own team."  
There was something in her voice that gave Harry pause, but he could not quite put his finger on what it was.  
Popov, though, smiled down at his 'asset'. "You don't like him much, do you?"  
There was a silence before Connie shrugged in lieu of an answer. "What do you care?" She cocked her head and a sly little smile curled the corners of her mouth. "You're not jealous, are you darling?"  
The Russian threw back his head and laughed. "You're magnificent, Connie James. Magnificent."

In the mausoleum, Harry frowned thoughtfully. He increasingly got the impression that there was another level to the scene he was witnessing; a level he had no understanding of. And that alarmed him immeasurably.

 _tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

**PART IV**

 _Do you know what love is? I'll tell you: it is whatever you can still betray._

John le Carré, _The Looking Glass War_

 _Western compound, Moscow  
26 November 1986, morning_

Ruth sat in her tiny kitchenette, the bowl of tasteless cornflakes in front of her untouched. All her attention was on the sheet at her elbow. It consisted of numerous paper strips pasted together, and from it Harry the journalist's face stared back at her. Except he was not a journalist at all. It was a communique sent by Dieter Hoffman to his headquarters in Bern, informing them that an MI-5 operative, Harry Pearce, was currently in Moscow for unknown reasons. No wonder he knew so much about the intelligence world – he was a part of it.

She did not know what to make of that. Many people viewed the shady world of spies with distaste, but Ruth had never really been one of them. She recognised the need for such people; she knew there was truth in Harry's assertion the other night that every country had interests to protect, and that spies formed an integral part of this. And if she was honest, she secretly thought that unknown world terrifically exciting, even though she knew that it was probably not quite as glamorous as it was made out to be in the movies. Still, to be in that world, to be in the know, must be thrilling. And now, of course, she had met two spies already without even knowing it. Because the sheet in her hand proved beyond all doubt that Dieter Hoffman worked for the Swiss Intelligence Service, just like Harry had said. She wondered what other information could be gleaned from the pile of shredding in that bag – she had focused on putting together this sheet first simply because the photo on it made it easier to identify the various pieces. With time and patience she could put together a lot more, but the question was whether she should? Was it wise, or would she put herself in danger by doing so? She would surely be fired if she was caught, and that could jeopardise the job she had lined up with the translation company. Was indulging her curiosity worth that price? And more importantly, what would she do if she found something pertinent to Britain? Was she obligated to inform someone? Like Harry?

That question brought her back to the blond spook, and even more dilemmas. Now that she knew what he was, should she cancel going to the ballet with him? Surely it was not desirable to go out with a spy. And yet, spies were people too, so why shouldn't she spend time with him? He had been kind enough to save her from Dieter Hoffman, and to warn her that the man was not quite what he appeared to be. She sighed in frustration, well aware of the irony of that argument. She might as well admit it – the thought that Harry Pearce was a spy only increased her interest in him. Her eye caught the clock and she jumped up. "Bugger!" She was late for the bus. Hurriedly she hid the document and rushed out the door, and to her relief the bus was still idling at the bus stop. The conductor gave her a mock stern look as she ran up, followed by a kindly smile as she puffed, "Sorry!"

She nodded at a few of her colleagues and took her usual seat by the window, and as the bus trundled out of the compound her thoughts went back to the conundrum she was grappling with. Was it a mistake to go to the ballet with Harry the spy? Would she be tarred with the same tainted brush of espionage by association? If the Swiss knew who he was, did the Russians know as well? So many questions, and no easy answers… She gazed out of the window, the weak sun lighting up the snow-covered pavement. Suddenly the city looked a lot less drab as the ice crystals glistened and reflected the light. This morning there were a few more pedestrians about, and one caught her eye. He strode along, clad in a calf-length black coat, and his hands swung by his sides, covered in black leather gloves. His head was bare and his pale hair shimmered in the early morning rays. Harry. Her heart-rate sped up and she stared at him, fascinated. Harry Pearce, MI-5 spy. What was he doing here in Moscow? What was he like? He glanced up as the bus approached and for a few seconds their eyes met, and then they were past him. But his expression of surprised delight was burnt onto her retinas, and she closed her eyes to keep the image there. He had been pleased to see her, and that knowledge decided her. She would go to the ballet with him, and bugger the consequences.

0o0

 _Harry's apartment  
Late afternoon_

Harry sat crouched over the tape recorder, listening to Connie and Popov's conversation for the umpteenth time. He analysed every word, every inflection, trying to put his finger on the cause of his unease. What was he missing? Popov hadn't seemed nervous, but that could be explained by the fact that the Russian believed he was the handler and Connie his asset. Wasn't that the whole point of Operation Renaissance? He rewound again and rested his forehead on his folded hands, closing his eyes. Connie sounded confident, flirty, which was what he would expect, but there was also something else. He grasped for the right word, and finally settled on 'subservient'. But surely that was also understandable; she was simply playing her role as asset to perfection. 'We _have history, and he trusts me._ _That is his one weakness_ ,' Connie was saying, ' _he wants to trust his close colleagues implicitly, and that makes him blind to any treachery within his own team_.' He rewound once more. ' _He trusts me. That is his one weakness_ -'

He stopped the tape and sat immobile as he let the words wash over him. Could it be…? No. Surely not. This was Connie James, for God's sake, one of the best intelligence officers he'd ever worked with. He felt guilty for even entertaining the idea that she might be a traitor, and that thought brought him back to Elena Gavrik yet again. She had him jumping at his own shadow now, and it had to stop. "Enough," he said aloud and removed the headphones with an irritated gesture. He was going in circles, getting nowhere. It was time to let it rest, to clear his head and think about something else. In an hour he would escort Ruth to the ballet, and the prospect brought a smile to his face. Connie, Popov and his doubts could take a backseat for the rest of the night.

0o0

 _19:00_

He knocked on her door at precisely seven o'clock, immaculate in his tuxedo. He had taken care over his appearance, hoping to make a better impression than he managed at their first meeting. He was unaccountably nervous – he who had seduced quite a few women with commensurate ease in the line of duty. But perhaps that was precisely the reason for his nerves; this had nothing to do with work. It was personal, and he was the first to admit that his record in personal relationships was not exactly stellar. In fact, his failed marriage was proof of how ill equipped he was for this sort of thing, and yet here he was, hoping to impress a woman ten years younger than him. He took a deep breath in an effort to settle his nerves, just as she opened the door and smiled shyly at him.

He stared. God, she looked beautiful. Dressed in a demure, figure-hugging velvet dress of a deep midnight blue, she looked elegant and out of his league, and he had to clear his throat before he could get out a greeting. When he told her she looked beautiful, she blushed becomingly and it eased his nerves – perhaps she also felt a little out of her depth in the fancy clothes. Well, they could be out of their depth together, he thought, and the idea gave him heart. He remembered seeing her in the discotheque and the sense he had got that she was a kindred spirit. Maybe tonight he would find out whether he'd been right. His eyes dropped to her feet, and he was happy to see her wearing sensible shoes. His plans for the night required a bit of walking, which would have been awkward on stilettos. "Shall we?" he asked and held her coat for her, and she dipped her head and smiled.  
"Yes."

He guided her towards the gate and she frowned. "Aren't we taking the bus?" she enquired. There was a bus running between the compound and the _Bolshoi_ for each performance and she had assumed they would take it.  
"No," Harry said and glanced at her. "I thought we'd take the Metro. Do it like the Muscovites do."  
Ruth's steps slowed and she looked concerned. "The Metro?"  
"Yes." He was looking at her curiously now. "Is something wrong?"  
"Er, no… It's just that the embassy advised staff not to use it. For safety reasons," she clarified.  
Harry stopped walking and looked at her in astonishment. "Really? So you've never been on the Metro?"  
She shook her head, feeling a bit silly. He processed this wordlessly, his warm brown gaze fixed on her face, and she felt herself falling into his eyes. When he finally spoke, he leant into her and dropped his voice to a more intimate register. "Well then, Ruth. Would you like to risk it? I promise I'll take good care of you," he said, and the words flowed into her ears and warmed her from the inside. _He is a spy_ , a small, increasingly distant voice warned, but she ignored it. To hell with good sense for this one night – she was going to the _Bolshoi_ ballet with a dashing spy, and she was going to make the most of it.  
"All right," she agreed with a small smile, and he noticed her dimples for the first time. He had to resist the urge to touch them, instead offering his arm as he assured her, "It's quite safe, really. Most embassies are over-cautious when it comes to the safety of their employees in places like these. It's understandable. But what is the use of working in Moscow if you never see one of its most impressive wonders?"  
"What do you mean?" she asked, lost, and he smiled mysteriously.  
"You'll see," he promised, and after a short walk he guided her into the _Novokuznetskaya_ station.

And she did see.  
She stopped walking and gazed around her in awe. "Oh my God," she breathed, spellbound by the grandeur.  
He watched her as she took in the ceiling mosaics, the bas-reliefs and the cast-bronze portraits of Russian war heroes with child-like marvel, his heart beating warmly in his chest.  
"It's incredible," she exclaimed, looking at him with bright eyes. "Are all the Metro stations like this?"  
"Most of them," he confirmed. "It's perhaps the only good thing to come from the Stalin era. He had it built to showcase the splendour of the Soviet Union to the world." He fell silent, looking around him, before adding as an afterthought, "In that, at least, he succeeded."  
They walked around slowly, admiring each artwork as the locals flowed around them and moved towards the trains. Harry pointed to one of the ornate marble benches that lined the platform. "These benches were removed from the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour before the Soviets demolished it in 1931. Quite a few of the stations have remnants from that church in them."  
Ruth ran a hand over the smooth surface, admiring the workmanship. It was as though a whole new world had been opened up before her – a Moscow that she had never even dreamt could exist. It was exhilarating, and liberating, and she wanted more. She wanted to see all of them. She looked up into his face. "Will you show me the rest as well?" she asked eagerly, that small warning voice completely forgotten, and his face lit up.  
"I'd be happy to," he agreed immediately, overjoyed that there would be an excuse to see her again. Now all he had to do was not fuck up this night.

0o0

On the train they were joined by many people similarly dressed in their glad-rags, chatting excitedly about the upcoming performance. Ruth sat next to Harry quietly, enchanted by the whole experience, and listened to the conversations flowing around them. Warmth radiated from the man next to her and seeped into her bloodstream. He was reassuringly solid and at ease, and she felt completely safe, confident that he could protect her from any possible danger. Not that there was any that she could see, and she realised the ridiculousness of the embassy directive. What other wonders had she missed out on by only going where the embassy had told her it was safe to go? Harry had opened her eyes to a whole new world, and she knew that she would never again simply take someone else's word for something. She would seek the facts for herself.

When they disembarked at _Teatralnaya_ station, they once again lingered, walking around to admire the majolica bas-reliefs on the central hall's vaulted ceiling. There were 56 of them, each depicting the theatre arts of the Soviet Union.  
"It's spectacular," Ruth enthused, and Harry nodded his agreement.  
"The white marble on these pillars is also from the Church of Christ the Saviour," he informed her, following the fluted pylon upwards with his eyes until he reached the ceiling once more. In the bas-relief above his head, a Georgian couple in their national costume danced with each other for eternity. His gaze dropped to the woman at his side and followed the marbled column of her neck, revealed to him by the clasp that gathered her hair at the nape. He swallowed. "We'd better get a wriggle-on," he ventured, and she nodded and to his delight put her hand back into the crook of his arm.

When they emerged from the Metro station the snow-covered Theatre Square lay before them, bathed in light. At the far end the _Bolshoi_ theatre stood in all its glory, guarded by a lit-up fountain and the _quadriga_ sculpture above its entrance. It was a scene out of a fairy-tale and Harry heard Ruth take a sharp breath. He escorted her across the square, feeling happier than he had in years, and her hand curled more securely around his arm. The magnificence did not end once they entered. The interior was decorated in opulent red and gold, a reminder of the days when Russia had been ruled by the fantastically wealthy tsars. Harry had been here before, so he focussed on his companion rather than the surroundings. She took everything in with wide eyes and a delighted smile, and it reminded him of his daughter's expression when she'd visited an amusement park for the first time. He was momentarily overwhelmed by a revelation – that this was the first night in a long time that nothing was tainted by guilt. He breathed deeply, revelling in the sensation, and smiled at Ruth in gratitude. She beamed back at him as he led her to their private box.

The usher was a dour middle-aged Russian woman and she scrutinised their tickets carefully before stepping aside and letting them in. The door closed behind them and they were alone, screened off from the rest of the theatre by the red curtain drawn across the front of the box. Sounds drifted up towards them; the low rumble of a hundred conversations from the audience below, strains from a violin as the orchestra tuned their instruments, footsteps and laughter passing in the corridor behind them. But they were alone, cocooned together by the red velvet surrounding them, and their eyes found each other and held, pregnant with possibility. The air became charged and Harry held his breath, desire coursing through his veins. He wanted nothing more than to bend his head and kiss her, but he held back. It was too soon, she was too young, his divorce was barely two months old. He was a spook, tainted by his questionable deeds, and she was pure and innocent. But then she swayed almost imperceptibly towards him and he realised – she _wanted_ him to kiss her. He was about to grant her wish when the lights flickered, signalling the start of the performance, and he closed his eyes. Christ, what was happening to him? Never before had he had such a strong reaction to a woman he'd just met. He shook his head in an effort to clear the fog of want, and stepped towards the curtain and opened it. By the time he turned back the lights had gone out, and he could not see her face clearly enough to know whether she felt similar disappointment at the interruption. He settled in the chair next to her, acutely aware of her presence, of any slight movement, of every breath. It was as though his every sense had been awakened by this woman, who he still knew so little about.

The performance began and he made a conscious effort to focus on it. There was nothing quite like the _Bolshoi_ – the dancers were magnificent, the orchestra faultless, and for a while he was swept along as Irek Mukhamedov leapt and pirouetted across the stage with a dazzling combination of power and grace. But then he made the mistake of glancing at his companion, and he was lost once more. She was transfixed, fully immersed in the spectacle, and even in the faint light he could see her expression of pure joy. Her hand rested on the armrest between them, close to his, and if he moved his little finger only a couple of millimetres he could touch her. The hairs on the back of his hand rose in anticipation, his mouth went dry and he could feel sweat gather on his upper lip as he fought the impulse. It was too soon. Some instinct warned him that he needed to take care with her, that she was somehow different, that she had the potential to become the most important woman in his life if he could handle things the right way. He blinked, astounded by the revelation, and almost immediately the doubts set in. He did not believe in love at first sight, and yet… He had never before felt such a strong attraction to a woman he had just met. His infatuations normally grew over time, once he got to know them, their values, their intelligence. He had a weakness for intelligent women; he could not abide the thought of spending his time with an empty head, no matter how beautiful she might be. Perhaps he was on the rebound – there was ample evidence that men were wont to errors of judgement after a painful divorce. Or perhaps it was not. Perhaps it was due to the fierce intelligence that glimmered in those stormy grey eyes, the compassion he had witnessed on that first night, the endearing clumsiness. A quiver went through him, and he was about to give in and move his little finger when a sudden burst of applause jerked him out of his trance. She turned her head to him, beaming, and murmured, "Fantastic!" He could only nod in agreement, unable to form any words as he removed his hand and gripped it tightly with the other. It was too soon.

0o0

 _Late night_

They walked back to the compound slowly, Ruth chattering enthusiastically about the performance, the Metro, the grandeur of the theatre. Harry mostly listened in enchanted indulgence, contributing the odd comment to keep the conversation flowing. He could no longer argue against it; he was hopelessly smitten. The question now was – what was he supposed to do about it? Should he pursue it and try to ascertain whether she had any interest in him? Was that fair? She didn't even know who he really was, and he could not tell her. He was here on an operation, pretending to be a journalist, and he could not jeopardise that. And that was when he realised – he did not want to start anything with Ruth under a deception. He wanted her to know who he was, what he was, what he was sometimes forced to do in the name of his country, and for her to accept him despite all of that.

By the time they reached her door an air of melancholy had settled upon him. She turned to him, too caught up in the magic of the evening to notice the change in his mood. "Thank you, Harry. For a wonderful evening." He could only nod and she continued, oblivious. "I love ballet – The Red Shoes is my favourite film – so I had always dreamt of seeing the _Bolshoi_ live." Her gaze found his, bright with anticipation, and her next words rushed out, as though she was afraid she would not get them out at normal speed. "…Would you like to come in?" He hesitated, and that was when she realised that something was wrong. At last she noticed his air of reservation, and as soon as she did her gaze dropped to the ground. "Right. Of course not. Silly me," she rambled, humiliation oozing from every pore, and he realised to his horror that she had got the wrong end of the stick.  
"No!" he exclaimed and reached out to still her hand, which was digging furiously in her bag for her keys. "It's not that I don't want to," he began, and faltered. How was he to explain matters to her without breaching the Official Secrets Act? Her gaze remained rooted to his shoes and his heart lurched; he could not leave her with the impression that he was not interested. "There are things you don't know," he began uncertainly, "about me. Things I can't tell you, no matter how badly I may wish to." The words fell dully upon the air between them and she showed no immediate reaction. His hand dropped from hers, acutely aware of the inadequacy of his explanation but at a loss as to how to make things clear to her. She took a shuddering breath and for an awful second he thought she was crying, but when she lifted her head her eyes were sparkling with relief, not tears.  
"There's something I have to show you," she said, and before he had properly processed the words she had the door open and stepped inside. She did not look back to see whether he was following.

He hovered on the doorstep, caught unawares by the sudden shift in her demeanour, uncertain as to what he was supposed to do now. He had the notion that this was the point of no return – if he stepped into that apartment, there would be no going back. She had an irresistible pull on him and sooner or later he would break his vow not to start anything with her, and then she would be drawn into his shadowy life without even knowing it. No, he could not do that to her. She deserved better than that.

He was about to turn and walk away when she reappeared in the door and held out a sheet of paper to him wordlessly. It seemed to consist of many thin strips that had been pasted together, and he immediately recognised what it was – a shredded document put back together. He took it from her with growing trepidation, and when he looked at it his own face stared back at him. Below it in bold black letters the stark truth was spelt out: Harry Pearce, MI-5 officer.

 _tbc_


	5. Chapter 5

**PART V**

 _A man who, like Smiley, has lived and worked for years among his country's enemies learns only one prayer: that he may never, never be noticed. Assimilation is his highest aim, he learns to love the crowds who pass him in the street without a glance; he clings to them for his anonymity and his safety._

John le Carré, _A Murder of Quality_

 _Ruth's apartment, Moscow  
26 November 1986, late night_

Harry stared at the paper in his hand, dumbfounded. How? When? Why? The implications were catastrophic – for the operation, for him, and for Connie most of all. Ruth was supposed to be clean, and yet she had got her hands on secret information. Had he made yet another error in judgement? It was Berlin all over again, and the red mist descended. He looked up at her, and her face froze at the sheer anger in his expression. He didn't touch her, but forced her back into the apartment with his bulk, stepping into her personal space until she backed up involuntarily. "Who are you?" he demanded as he pulled the door closed behind them, wondering how both Malcolm and GCHQ could have got it so wrong, how _he_ could have got it so wrong. Her back hit the wall and she stopped, fear flashing in her eyes as he kept advancing. He did not let it soften his heart. "Where did you get this?" He waved the paper in the air, and her eyes flitted between it and his face.  
"I don't underst-" she began, but he cut her off.  
"Who do you work for?"  
"What do you mean?" Confusion was writ large over her features and he could hardly miss it. He was right up in her face, crowding her, intimidating her with his greater size. Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered how small she really was.  
"Is it the Swiss? The Russians?" he demanded, and she blanched.  
"What?! No! I don't-"  
"This isn't a game, Ruth." He bit off her name and she flinched. "I have an officer in the field – there are lives at stake. So start talking."

Though he never raised his voice, she was under no illusion of the threat he presented. There was a ruthlessness in his gaze, a coldness that spoke of a heretofore unseen capability for violence, and a shiver ran down her spine. This man was a spy, and she should have realised the implications thereof. She had rather foolishly nurtured a romantic notion of what he did, ignoring the darker side of espionage. She had never imagined him resorting to violence, but she now knew with unwavering certainty – Harry Pearce was capable of aggression when called for. And yet there was something admirable in his actions. Earlier she had been certain that he was interested in her, that he enjoyed her company, but the moment he thought that she was a threat, that she could put his officer in the field in danger, he did what was necessary to protect that officer, despite any personal feelings for her. She took a steadying breath and kept her voice even and calm.  
"I do not work for anyone," she said, looking him straight in the eye. "I stole Dieter Hoffman's shredding bag because I was curious about you."

0o0

They sat opposite each other in her tiny sitting room, both cradling a stiff measure of whisky. An uneasy truce hung in the air, brittle and on the verge of being shattered by a thoughtless word. Harry had undone his bowtie and it hung loose around his open collar. He watched her wordlessly, waiting for the full explanation, and trying his best to listen objectively. His recent experiences had ingrained a predilection for mistrust in him, and because of that he found it hard to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Like I said, I was curious about you." She gave an embarrassed smile. "I mean, first you warn me about Hoffman, and then Hoffman warns me about you."  
Harry tilted his head in a wordless query and she elaborated. "He cornered me in my office that next morning and wanted to know whether I knew you. I didn't give him an answer, and then he said that just because you are also from England it did not mean that I should trust you." She took a sip of the whisky as she gathered her thoughts. "Last night I was in the office late – Hoffman had already left. I saw them collecting the shredding bags, so I got the idea of switching my bag for his." She briefly described how she went about it and Harry was impressed despite himself. It had been good fieldwork, and this was a woman who had not even had any intelligence training. As far as he knew. "This is the only page I have put together so far," she continued. "It was easier to find the pieces because of the picture." Sheepishly, she admitted, "It was simply blind luck that it actually pertained to you."

He kept her pinned in his gaze as he mulled things over. It sounded plausible and he was inclined to believe her. But should he? Could he rely on his judgement? Especially where women were concerned? Elena briefly swam to the front of his mind's eye and he wondered yet again; had she played him? Had the recruitment been just too easy? And was Ruth similarly pulling the wool over his eyes now – playing the innocent? But to what end? He had no option but to push her harder. "What are you going to do with this information?" he asked, his voice flat and accusing.  
"Nothing," she protested. "You can have it. Do with it what you will," she added, nodding at the paper he still held in his hand.  
"Mmm," he responded, not giving an inch. "Noble of you, but rather meaningless. Even if I destroy it, the knowledge is still in your head, and that is a problem for me." There was a trace of menace behind the words and she flinched.  
Fear crept into her eyes but she stood her ground. "Are you threatening me?" she demanded, taking refuge in anger, and he suppressed a tendril of admiration. She had courage.  
"Do I need to?" he asked smoothly, putting the ball squarely back in her court.  
She took a steadying breath and shook her head wearily. "No. I simply wanted to know more about the man I was about to go to the _Bolshoi_ with. Nothing more, nothing less."

A long pause followed her admission, in which Harry watched her carefully. She looked tired and deflated, in stark contrast to her earlier euphoria, and he felt a twinge of guilt. He had done this to her, spoiling her idyllic evening. But there had been no choice. There was so much at stake here – the operation, which was aimed at protecting MI-5 from continued KGB attempts to penetrate it; embarrassment to Britain if their activities were exposed, and most important of all, Connie's life. He rubbed his forehead in frustration, increasingly aware that his profession called for a constant struggle between his conscience and the greater good. He wondered how long he could keep it up before he broke. "I believe you," he said at length. When he looked at her she looked wary and not exactly forgiving, and he could not blame her. "I had to be certain. I'm sure you understand," he added even though it was pretty damn clear that she did not. "You will have to sign the Official Secrets Act. And that will mean if you ever tell anyone about me you will be prosecuted for treason." All these things had to be said but he took no joy from doing so, knowing that it was probably the final nail in the coffin of possibility, of any chance he might have had of wooing her.  
Her eyes flashed mutinously at the implication that she could only be trusted once she had signed a piece of paper as she snapped, "Fine." And he could not help but think that that was that.

He tossed back the rest of the drink. "What happened to the bag of shredding?" he asked, thinking he might as well get everything he could out of the whole mess, professionally speaking.  
Her eyes lifted to his in surprise. "I still have it," she admitted and he smiled. Malcolm had been right – she would be wasted on GCHQ.  
"Can I have it?"  
She hesitated. "Why?"  
He was aware that she had not yet signed the Official Secrets Act and that he shouldn't really be telling her anything, but he had been honest about believing her. And it would be good to have access to the Swiss embassy should it prove necessary. "Dieter Hoffman is a senior member of Swiss Intelligence – too senior to be a mere Head of Station in an embassy," he explained. "His presence makes me curious. Perhaps there will be an indication of what the Swiss are up to in that bag."

Ruth processed this. She was aware that she was at a crossroads – if she handed over the bag she would become, in essence, an agent for MI-5. For Harry Pearce. And she was not exactly feeling magnanimous towards him at the moment. But then he was only doing his job, protecting his officer in the field. She might not like the fact that he could suspect her of working for a foreign power, but she had to admire his commitment on some level. Besides, she was awfully curious herself about Dieter Hoffman now. "You can have it on one condition," she said boldly. "That you let me help you with it."  
He lifted an eyebrow in surprise and she thought he would refuse, but after a slight hesitation he nodded. "All right," he agreed, and they smiled at each other tentatively, feeling their way across this new ground in their association with considerate care.

0o0

 _Ruth's apartment, Moscow  
29 November 1986_

Harry found what he was looking for three days later. They had spent every available free moment in Ruth's apartment, sorting through the thin strips of paper and painstakingly fitting them together. It had been awkward at first. There had been little conversation, and what there was could only be described as stilted, but things had gradually improved. She had learnt that he was a highly intelligent man with a wide ranging general knowledge and a shrewd understanding of global politics, and that he had a sharp, dry wit that could make her laugh at the most unexpected of times. Most important of all to her, though, was a realisation that he had a sure moral code, something she suspected to be rare in the murky world of spies. She liked him, enjoyed spending time with him, and her admiration continued to grow. For Harry's part, he was increasingly impressed by her ability to knuckle down to this menial, time-consuming, fiddling task. Her powers of concentration proved superior to his, and she had a flair for finding links between apparently disparate pieces of information. He could see why she had scored high on the analytical tests. Ruth was ideally suited to be an intelligence analyst, and he resolved to recruit her for MI-5 before his time in Moscow came to an end.

She had just handed him another sheet that she had put together, and as he read it the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. "Hoffman has an asset in the KGB," he declared, and Ruth stopped what she was busy with and stared at him.  
"How do you know?"  
He waved the sheet. "This page is from a report on the state's slipping control over its petroleum resources, and the growing influence of criminal groups in that sector."  
Ruth frowned. "What does that have to do with the KGB?"  
"Only the KGB has the authority to do such investigations, and the clout to criticise the state and even mention the existence of criminal elements." He smiled wryly. "The Soviet Union has always proclaimed that Communism prevents criminality, because everyone is equal, economically speaking. Obviously they failed to take human nature into account – especially that pesky little trait known as greed."  
She suppressed a smile – these last few days she had become well acquainted with Harry's disdain for Communism. As she did so, her mind was already computing the veracity of his conclusion. "Even if the KGB compiled that report, Hoffman could have got it from someone else," she argued. "The Ministry of Oil Refining and Petrochemical Industry, for instance – I assume the report would have gone to them?"  
"Ah, but that's where you would be wrong," Harry responded, enjoying the intellectual sparring. It was invigorating to work with someone of such extraordinary reasoning ability. "The KGB never submitted this report to the Ministry, or to anyone else for that matter. I know that because we have been trying very hard to get our hands on it, without success. And seeing how leaky the Ministries have become, that could only mean that the KGB is holding onto the report."  
"Why would the KGB hold on to the report?" she asked.  
"Because most of these criminal groups have links to the organisation," Harry said simply, and Ruth looked surprised. "Think about it," he continued. "How else are these elements able to move around with such freedom? It is only possible if you have a patron amongst the higher echelons of the KGB, the very organisation that is supposed to keep an eye on such activities."

There was a certain logic to the argument, and the more Ruth thought about it, the more sense it made. She took it a step further. "And if you have the report, you can position yourself better to get access to the Soviet Union's resources when it finally implodes."  
"Exactly."  
She looked around her at the piles of shredding spread over the carpet. "The whole report must be in here." For the first time she sounded a bit disconsolate and Harry did not blame her. It was tedious, pain-staking work, and he knew that he lacked the willpower to continue with it. Especially now that he had what he wanted.  
"Yes. It would be quite a coup if we could deliver the report to London," he acknowledged, and a frisson ran through her at his casual use of the word 'we'. "But luckily I know a man for whom piles of shredding is manna from heaven," he continued with some relief. "Gather all this stuff together – I'm going to send it off to London."  
"Right," she said, and was surprised at the disappointment she suddenly felt. Mostly it was because she would have liked to see this thing through, and to be in the know as to the outcome. But there was also the knowledge that there would be no further excuse to spend so much time with the man opposite her.  
He tilted his head and said, "I will keep you informed about developments, Ruth. You have earned the right to know what happens. I'll make sure they know who they have to thank for this priceless information."  
She smiled and dipped her head, embarrassed that he had read her so easily. At least he hadn't seemed to pick up on the second reason behind her disappointment, and for that she was grateful. Another thought struck her and she looked up at him. "Does this mean that your business here in Moscow is concluded?" she asked miserably, and as he stood looking down into her eyes a moment passed between them; a realisation that the attraction arcing between them was entirely mutual, and when he answered his voice was lower than normal.  
"No. Obtaining the report was only a secondary objective. I'll be here for a while yet."  
She nodded and mumbled a response, and he could almost have sworn that she had said, "Good."

0o0

 _Dieter Hoffman's apartment  
30 November 1986, late night_

When Dieter Hoffman stepped through his door and switched on the light, he nearly had a heart attack. As the light flooded the room it illuminated a man sitting on his sofa, one ankle casually crossed over a knee.  
Hello, Dieter," Harry said and lifted the glass he held in his hand. "I hope you don't mind; I've been waiting a while. You have excellent taste in whisky."  
The Swiss' face darkened in anger. "Of course I mind!" he snapped in precise syllables. "What is the meaning of this?"  
Harry's amiable expression hardened at the hostile reception, but his voice remained even. "Take a guess, old man."  
There was a flash of fear in the other man's eyes before he hedged, "I have no idea."  
"Really?" Harry said incredulously. "Then let your mind wander back to that night a week ago, when you forced yourself on a young English woman next to the Moskva."  
The words hung in the air between them, the menace behind them unmistakable. Few countries were more committed to proper social conduct than the Swiss, and any hint of sexual impropriety could seriously damage a career. Hoffman wiped a hand wearily across his face. "I was merely trying-" he began, then stopped, deflated. After a beat he moved forward and settled in the chair opposite Harry.  
He said nothing more, so Harry guessed, "Trying to what, Dieter? Seduce her and use her as an asset?"  
Hoffman's hand twitched on his knee and Harry knew that he had guessed right. He laughed. "You weren't getting very far, from what I could tell. What did you want to use her for?"  
Hoffman lifted his gaze to the English spook, and his resentment was obvious. "That is none of your concern."  
"No?" Harry snapped. "You were trying to recruit a British citizen. That makes it very much my concern."  
Hoffman didn't say anything and Harry leant forward. "Do not be under any illusion, Dieter. I can destroy you. Your service does not condone sexual peccadilloes, even when they are done in the name of duty. You are at my mercy."  
The two men stared at each other for long, tense seconds. Harry did not blink and eventually Hoffman was the first to back down. "What do you want?" he asked woodenly, and Harry sat back and smiled thinly. "I want a meeting with your KGB asset."

The Swiss almost succeeded in hiding his shock. But not quite. He could not suppress the slight widening of the eyes or the blood draining from his face, and because Harry was paying close attention he noticed those signs. In an effort to keep his opponent off-balance, he immediately dropped his next bombshell. "You have already got what you wanted from this asset – the petroleum industry report the KGB had compiled. So you have nothing to lose."  
Hoffman looked at him sharply. And suspiciously. "You seem to think you know an awful lot," he hedged, and Harry shrugged laconically.  
"We British have always been rather good at intercepting communications and breaking codes." Better to let Switzerland think their communications have been breached than drop Ruth in it unnecessarily.  
The Swiss smiled ruefully and conceded the argument with a curt nod. "What do you want with my KGB asset?" he asked resignedly.  
Harry was about to lie, but then reconsidered. He was asking an awful lot of the Swiss intelligence officer – perhaps the man deserved to know the truth. So he said: "I suspect my current operation here has been compromised. I want confirmation of my suspicions."

 _tbc_


	6. Chapter 6

**PART VI**

 _They would know that inconsistency in human decision can make nonsense of the best-planned espionage approach; that cheats, liars and criminals may resist every blandishment while respectable gentlemen have been moved to appalling treasons by watery cabbage in a Departmental canteen._

John le Carré, _The Spy Who Came In From the Cold_

 _Swiss Intelligence Service safe house, Moscow  
03 December 1986, late morning_

It took three days to set up the meeting. Hoffman had agreed to it eventually, and they had decided that it would be best not to inform the asset beforehand. He would think that he was going to have his usual meeting with his Swiss handler, only to find MI-5 also represented. Hoffman had reluctantly provided the address of the safe house and said shortly, "For God's sake make sure you lose your KGB tail before you go there; I would like to continue using it after this meeting."  
So Harry had spent three hours that morning leading Igor a merry dance. The men they had put on him was not their finest, something else which arose his suspicion. It could, of course, simply be because they believed that Connie was their asset and that she would inform them of Harry's activities, but he knew that he would have approached things differently. If he were in charge of the KGB operation to run Connie, he would have kept a close eye on his opposite number for two reasons: to ensure that his asset was not in danger, and to monitor that the asset was not playing a double game. Unless, perhaps, he was completely convinced of the loyalty of the asset… He did not want to entertain the thought. But the suspicion was like a cancer, spreading with each passing day, and soon Connie would pick up on it. That was why he was here; he had to know one way or the other before that happened.

He sat quietly in an armchair whilst Hoffman moved around the apartment to prepare it for the meeting. Safe houses were the same the world over, he reflected; gloomy, shabby furniture, a stale smell and a neglected air. It was the place where people betrayed their countries and in the process sold their souls. And not only the assets. The handlers often sold theirs as well to get the information they wanted. It had always fascinated him; what drove people to betrayal? In his experience it was mostly for money, and occasionally for ideological reasons. That was increasingly rare, though. The Soviet Union was close to collapse and by extension so was the Communist ideology, and most assets that offered their services nowadays were motivated by a desire to get themselves and their families to the West before the whole façade came crashing down.

Hoffman placed a plate piled with sliced sausage, pickles and black bread on the table, then added a bottle of vodka and three glasses. A carton of American cigarettes came last and Harry sniffed in derision – he did not understand the Russians' fascination with all things Uncle Sam. The Swiss settled in the chair opposite Harry and regarded the Englishman steadily. The MI-5 spook had a desolate air about him, and Hoffman could only guess at the reason behind it. "His name is Misha Zverev," he revealed unsolicited. "General Misha Zverev," he added meaningfully and Harry lifted his gaze to Hoffman's face. He knew that name well.  
"From the K Directorate of the KGB," he said, not bothering to hide his admiration. "That's a big fish. Congratulations." Britain and the US had been trying to penetrate that most secretive of directorates for years, without any success. It was responsible for counter-espionage, and in the line of this duty could demand access to any person, document or organisation to fulfil its function.  
Hoffman smiled stiffly. "Thank you. But I can't claim any credit for it. _He_ approached _me_ – at that big economic conference in Turkey last year."  
"Why did he choose you?" Harry asked curiously, before adding belatedly, "No offence intended."  
The Swiss waved it away. "None taken. It's a reasonable question. We Swiss are not exactly at the cutting edge of espionage. And I think that is exactly why he chose us." Harry nodded slowly. It made sense. Hoffman continued: "If he went to you or the Yanks, he would spend years being passed from one debrief to the next as you tried to get every last piece of valuable information out of him. By the time he was free to settle somewhere and pursue his business interests, the Soviet Union pie will already have been divided between the politicians, crooks and KGB officers. There would be nothing left for him."

Hoffman was right; that was exactly what would happen if such a senior KGB officer defected. This was useful information that Harry could use to his advantage. "So Zverev is hoping to benefit from the collapse of his country?" he queried, and Hoffman murmured assent.  
"As you know, there are criminal organisations operating all over the Soviet Union, and each of them has the patronage of one or more politicians and KGB officers. Zverev has aligned himself with one of the biggest, the Ukranian outfit known as _Serp_. He has helped them to get control of oil production in Western Siberia."  
"Ah, another aspiring oligarch," Harry commented, his voice laced with cynicism. There were many of those in the West as well, and it was always a danger to stability when the economic interests of one man became bigger than those of most countries. Before Hoffman could respond there was a knock at the door, and with a slight nod at Harry the Swiss rose and moved towards it.

Harry remained in the chair and listened to the murmur of voices as Hoffman greeted the Russian. Anticipation and dread mingled and formed a lead ball in his stomach. For once in his life he would gladly be proven wrong – he fervently hoped that the Russian would tell him that Connie was not a traitor, that it was his judgement instead that was shot to hell. But he was determined that he would not leave here today without answers. The voices moved closer and the Russian laughed, but it was cut off abruptly when he rounded the corner and saw the man sitting in the chair. Zverev was in his fifties, large and broad-shouldered with a fleshy face that spoke of someone used to the good life. Harry could not help but compare that to the often gaunt faces of the Russians in the countryside; so much for equality in distribution of resources. These men - the stalwarts of the Party and the higher echelons of the KGB - were no different from their counterparts in the free world and corruption was rife. Just like almost every politician Harry had ever known, they had been seduced by the power.

Zverev swung round and glared at Hoffman. "What is this?" he demanded, but Harry did not give the Swiss a chance to respond.  
"You know who I am," he interjected, and the Russian's head swivelled back to him. The eyes were wary but not afraid. Zverev was in his own backyard, and apparently confident enough of his position not to fear the presence of a British intelligence officer. Harry noted that with some trepidation.  
"'Arry Pearce," Zverev acknowledged with a hint of contempt before turning back to Hoffman. "What is this?" he reiterated angrily. "We had an agreement."  
Once again Harry answered on behalf of the other man. "Yes you did, but I forced him to renege on it." He wanted the Russian's focus on him, and his statement had the desired effect. Cold blue eyes moved back to him and stayed there. A sneer settled on the fleshy lips.  
"You English do love your blackmail. You no longer have anything to offer potential agents – your famed democracy and 'free' economy is a failure. Ask the miners that your Prime Minister is laying off by the thousands-"  
"Spare me the lecture," Harry interrupted. "If Communism is such a raging success, why are you selling your country's secrets to the Swiss in return for a new life in the West?" The Russian glared at him and Harry continued. "And I can offer you something Hoffman can't – proven success in getting our assets and their families out of this godforsaken dump of a country. Alive."

All three men contemplated each other in thoughtful silence. Hoffman had a wry smile on his face – he knew that the English spy had just spoken the magic words. The Swiss were virgins where the extraction of agents from enemy territory was concerned, whilst the British had been doing it for decades. Not always successfully, admittedly, but it had been done. Zverev looked between the two men calculatingly and Harry said nothing more, careful not to overplay his hand. He did not want to appear desperate; the Russian would pick up on it and exploit it shamelessly.  
"You will help me settle in the country of my choosing," the Russian stated eventually, and Harry knew that he had won.  
"Within reason," he agreed, settling in for the negotiations. "We might find it difficult to help if you wished to settle in Afghanistan, say."  
The Russian did not smile at the joke. He watched Harry carefully as he pressed, "And you will provide me with enough to live comfortably."  
Harry cocked his head in disbelief. "Of course," he said sarcastically. "Why not give you the crown jewels while we're at it?" Zverev's face darkened in anger as Harry continued. "By all accounts you are a rather rich man, Misha. You've already stolen enough to live comfortably for two lifetimes. I don't see why the British tax payer should contribute more than the normal going rate for defectors towards your comfort."

The two men stared at each other, and there was a hint of derision in the Russian's gaze. It made Harry uncomfortable; he got the distinct impression that Zverev knew something about him that he believed would give him the upper hand in any negotiations. So he added, "Of course, your worth to us will very much depend on the information you can provide. If it is valuable enough, we might yet give you the crown jewels."  
That seemed to be what the Russian wanted to hear, as he smirked arrogantly and his shoulders relaxed. "In that case, 'Arry Pearce, I am willing to negotiate a deal."  
Hoffman had watched the exchange with interest, and now stepped forward and shook the Russian's hand. "I will leave you to it. Good luck, Misha. If the British renege on their promises, I will do what I can for you. I regard our agreement as valid still." And with a final look at Harry, he walked out the door.

0o0

Finally alone, the two men regarded each other with barely hidden animosity. Their two countries had been locked in the Cold War for almost forty years and trust did not come easy. Zverev sat down in the chair earlier occupied by Hoffman and was the first to break the silence. "When can you get me out?"  
Harry shook his head. "You know it doesn't work like that. We don't give something for nothing."  
"No, that's right. Nothing is free in a democracy, is it?" Zverev sneered.  
"Mmm," Harry agreed, curbing his annoyance. "But on the other hand, when you pay for something, you usually get value for your money. Which is more than I can say for the Soviet Union. The service is simply appalling."  
The Russian's eyes flashed, and then he laughed. "Maybe we should leave the ideological debates and get down to business. What do you want?"

This was it, the moment of truth. In only a few seconds he would know whether his operation was blown. "I want to know," he said slowly, "whether the KGB knows about Operation Renaissance."  
The Russian smiled condescendingly. "Yes," he said, and Harry's world tilted.  
"How?" he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.  
Zverev shrugged. "I had assumed that you were indiscreet again. Like in Berlin," he tossed in as an afterthought, and Harry could feel sweat begin to form on his upper lip despite the cold temperatures. Christ. Bloody Berlin again.  
"Is that what Ilya Gavrik told you?" he probed, managing to infuse some contempt into his voice.  
"Ilya?" Zverev exclaimed in surprise. "No, not Ilya." He regarded Harry calculatingly. Harry knew the game – the Russian would try to figure out how little intelligence he had to give away to win his extraction. And he would start with information he thought the British already possessed. "The KGB is divided into two factions," Zverev explained, "and has been for some years. There are the hard-liners who want the status quo to remain, to keep the Cold War going and the Soviet Union intact. Then there are the realists, who accept that the Soviet Union is in its dying throes and that it needs to change, to progress." He leant forward and poured some vodka into a glass. "The hard-liners currently have control of the KGB, and they are the ones who handle the important operations – like the one in Berlin and your current operation here." He tossed back the alcohol before he added, "Ilya Gavrik is not a hard-liner."  
"Then how…?" Harry queried, although deep down he already knew. Knew that it was the one explanation he had not wanted to admit to himself.  
"Because Elena, his wife, is," Zverev said, confirming Harry's worst fears.

"She played you beautifully," the Russian smirked, unable not to gloat. He might be about to betray his country for money, but he still enjoyed it when they got one over on the old enemy. Harry concentrated on his breathing, the Russian's voice coming from far off as he struggled to compute the implications of the revelation. _In. Out._ Elena Gavrik was a KGB officer, and a hard-liner to boot. A fanatic. _In. Out_. And he had damn near brought her to England with him when the operation in Berlin collapsed. If his CIA counterpart hadn't stopped him at gunpoint, he would have. And he would probably have married her, too, once he was free to do so, out of a sense of obligation to the boy. Sasha. His son…  
As though reading his mind, Zverev continued, "She's a cold one, Elena. Not above using her child to ensnare you. Poor Ilya. Just like you, he has no idea what she really is." He shook his head. "Imagine what that must be like – not to know that your wife was using your son as a pawn in her spying games. She would have gone with you, you know, with the boy in tow, and set up house with you in England. And you would have sheltered the enemy in your bosom for God knows how long before you figured it out."

Harry felt sick. It was too much – he was struggling to process all the information. "So Sasha… He's Ilya's son?" he queried faintly, aware that he was losing control of the conversation. He was here to get information on his current operation, and all he could think about was the events in Berlin. On some level he was aware that this was exactly what the Russian intended.  
"Yes, he is Ilya's son," Zverev confirmed, and Harry briefly closed his eyes. If he could believe the Russian, that at least was one less thing for him to feel guilty about. Or was there? He needed to get a grip, to think clearly. The Russian could be lying through his teeth. Proof. He needed proof. And he needed the information he had actually come to get.  
He leant forward and pinned the Russian in his gaze. "All of that is old news," he rallied. "What about Operation Renaissance? What does the KGB know about it?"  
Zverev smiled wryly. He had hoped to misdirect the English spook with the explosive revelations about Elena Gavrik, but apparently Harry Pearce was made of sterner stuff. Most men would have been too shocked by their fallibility to concentrate on anything else, but the MI-5 officer would not be diverted. Reluctantly he explained, "They know that it is an attempt to make the KGB believe that they have a mole within MI-5."

Harry sat back slowly, never taking his eyes off the other man. It was a disaster of unimaginable proportions. His instincts had been right all along –about both Berlin and Operation Renaissance. At least he could take some solace from that. "Can you prove any of this?" he asked bluntly, and the Russian blanched. He had probably hoped to buy his extraction at a much lower price than this, but unfortunately the man before him was no fool. He would not be fobbed off with  
hearsay.  
The Russian sighed. "Yes, I can prove it. I can photograph documents and bring you the microfilm."  
Harry nodded, outwardly calm but roiling inside. "All right; this is the price for your extraction: you bring me proof that Operation Renaissance is blown and identify the leak. And you bring me proof that Elena Gavrik is a KGB hard-liner. Can you do that?"  
There was a pregnant silence as Zverev considered. Then he simply said, "Yes."

0o0

 _Gorky Park, Moscow  
Two hours later_

Harry hurried along the icy path. This time it was he who was late, and Connie would not appreciate being left waiting in the cold. He attached himself loosely to a group of tourists who were led around by a disinterested guide, who droned out his well-practiced spiel without the slightest hint of enthusiasm. This was Communism at work: in a free economy he wouldn't last a week. When the group reached the southern end he slipped away down a small, overgrown path. As he headed down the vegetative tunnel he could see her sitting on the bench, huddled in a dark blue coat, fur hat and fur-lined boots. She hadn't noticed him yet and he paused to study her. He liked Connie despite her sometimes acerbic tongue, and he certainly respected her professional abilities. Could it be…? Surely not. Not Connie. There had to be another explanation, another leak. In a few days he would know, but until then he was determined to give her the benefit of the doubt. To protect her at all costs.

She looked up at his soft footsteps, dampened by the snow, and huddled deeper into her coat. "About time," she grumbled, and he smiled in apology.  
"Sorry. I lost track of time."  
Her shrewd gaze fastened on him. "Hm. Finding it difficult to tear yourself away from your new young plaything?"  
He looked at her sharply, unease prickling the back of his neck at the venom behind the words. Not much got past Connie James, so he was not surprised that she had noticed the time he had spent with Ruth. But why the bitterness? "She's not my plaything," he responded irritably. "She's new here and I'm showing her around a bit, that's all."  
"Oh, I see. And is she showing you around her bedroom in return?" Connie needled, and Harry gritted his teeth and gave her an annoyed look. This woman had an unerring ability to get under his skin, to keep him off-balance. It seemed like she enjoyed winding him up, but was it really just for her personal entertainment, as he had always believed, or was there something darker behind it? He didn't know any more.  
"Let's get on, shall we?" he changed the subject and she grinned unapologetically.  
"Fine." She held out her hand. "Just give me the latest bait and I'll be on my way."  
But he did not move, and she looked at him questioningly. He chose his words carefully. "I'm putting everything on hold," he informed her, and she frowned in confusion.  
"Why?"  
"Something is off about this operation," he said slowly, watching every shift in her expression. She did not respond and her eyes became guarded, and he marvelled again at how good she was. "I'm not putting you in danger until I know more," he continued, "which I should in a few days. So stay away from Popov until I tell you otherwise."

With that warning he rose and walked away, and her gaze stayed on him until he was out of sight.

 _tbc_


	7. Chapter 7

**PART VII**

 _They would expect him to be afraid; for his service pursued traitors as the eye of God followed Cain across the desert._

John le Carré, _The Spy Who Came In From the Cold_

 _Western compound, Moscow  
03 December 1986, early afternoon_

Ruth had just settled herself in the weak sunbeam that shone through her sitting room window with a book when there was a knock on her door. It was Saturday and she wasn't expecting anyone, so she carefully opened the door a crack and peeked through - the Russians did not believe in peepholes. To her surprise and delight Harry stood outside her apartment, dressed in jeans, a snug jumper and his long coat. "Are you busy?" he asked with that lovely smile of his, and she shook her head. "Then how about a tour of the Metro stations? I seem to remember making a promise in that regard."  
"Er," she began and his face fell, so she hurried on. "I'd love to, but you'll have to give me a few minutes – I wasn't expecting company," she explained, making a vague gesture towards herself. His eyes travelled over her, taking in jeans, boots and her thick woolly jersey, before loitering on her hair that was gathered in a ponytail. They followed the line of her neck and finally came to rest on her face, and everywhere his gaze touched her skin caught fire.  
"You look lovely," he blurted, and she could not help the beaming smile that broke out on her face.  
"Thanks," she murmured, and they stood looking at each other in mute appreciation as the air became charged with a delicious tension.  
Harry cleared his throat. "So, er, grab your coat and we can…" He hooked a thumb over his shoulder and she came to life with a start.  
"Yes. Okay. Good. Be right back," she babbled before rushing back into the apartment.

He remained on the doorstep, staring after her with a silly smile. After his encounters with Zverev and Connie he had felt the need for something good and pure, and his feet had brought him here, to her apartment, almost without conscious thought. Ruth Evershed was quickly becoming the shining light in his otherwise shadowy life, and he did not have the willpower to fight it. And why should he, now that she knew who he was and still wanted to spend time with him? _But she does not yet know everything about you_ , an insidious little voice reminded him. _She does not know about Elena, Sasha and Berlin, or Bill Crombie and Belfast, or the many shady things you have done._ Harry tried to suppress the voice, but it would not be silenced. It ruthlessly reminded him of every life he had taken, every woman he had seduced in the name of duty. He recalled the flash of pure joy that had lit her eyes when she'd realised that he was the one knocking on her door and he wondered; did all of that matter? Would it make a difference to the way she looked at him, or would it be enough if he let her see who he really was? Not Harry Pearce - MI-5 intelligence officer, but rather Harry Pearce – man, father, and human being? Or Harry Pearce – lover? She came back outside, smiling at him, and saved him from himself. He shook off these morbid thoughts and steered her away with a hand in the small of her back.

0o0

They started at _Shosse Entuziastov_ station, with its large 'Flame of Freedom' sculpture against one wall. The theme was related to the Revolution and all the pictures and sculptures in the station spoke to it. Whilst Ruth stood in front of the Flame and marvelled at the sheer scale of it, Harry's eyes travelled over their fellow passengers. He had already picked out Igor, but after his meeting with Zverev he was not taking any chances. He was on the alert, looking out for a bigger scale surveillance operation; he could not afford to miss anything at this delicate stage of developments. Ruth's low voice brought his attention back to her. "Are we being followed?" she asked, and he marvelled at her perceptiveness. She had immediately picked up on his distraction. That gave him an idea – two pairs of eyes were better than one.  
"What do you think?" he asked equally softly and she looked up at him in surprise. There was a playful challenge in his eyes and she took it up with a small smile of delight.  
"Well, there is the one with the shoulder who always follows you around," she commented and he grinned in admiration.  
"Yes. Igor is not the pick of the crop – rather easy to spot. And to lose, for that matter." He took a step closer and his arm brushed hers, causing a thrill to run through her. It was intoxicating, playing these spy games with him. It drew her into his world, and there was an intimacy to the situation which she found irresistible. It was the two of them against the might of the KGB, and it sealed them in a cocoon where only they knew the rules of the game. None of the people swirling around them had the faintest idea, and the knowledge was like an aphrodisiac that made desire burn in her blood. "But is there anyone else?" Harry's velvet voice murmured close to her ear. "It could be a strategy to lull us into a false sense of security – put one bumbling shadow on us, so that we don't bother to look for the other more professional ones."

She had not considered that and resisted the urge to look around. Harry continued and the realisation came to her – he was training her in counter-surveillance techniques. It was all done playfully, but there was an undertone of urgency to his actions that reminded her that none of this was a game. He was a spy in the middle of an operation where lives were at stake. She had now been drawn into that operation and he was making sure that she knew what to look for, to not endanger either the operation or herself. "Don't look at the obvious stuff, like a coat or a hat or hair," he was saying. "That can be changed quickly and easily. Always focus on the less obvious – shoes, a belt buckle. If you're close enough, look at the nails, for instance. Are they dirty? Is one chipped? Or moles or freckles on the face." She nodded, absorbing the instruction with focussed concentration, determined not to let him down. He smiled and his eyes twinkled mischievously as he added, "If you spot another tail before the end of the day, I'll buy you dinner."  
"Ooh, dinner! You're on," she responded, playing along, and he threw back his head and laughed. God, she was wonderful.

0o0

Their next stop was the glorious _Mayakovskaya_ station. It was considered one of the most beautiful stations, although it was not Harry's favourite. Alexander Deyneka's 34 ceiling mosaics with the theme of '24-Hour Soviet Sky' was lit above their heads, proclaiming to passengers the bright Soviet future as they moved along the cavernous hall. Whilst Ruth admired the mosaics Harry admired the shoes of his fellow travellers, noting every scuff, run-down heel or frayed lace. "All of this must have cost a fortune," Ruth commented as she surveyed the patterned pink and white marble floor. The opulence of these stations was in stark contrast to the drabness of Soviet life above their heads, and she struggled to make sense of it.  
"Yes," Harry agreed, "but most of these were built in the early years of Stalin's rule. He was anxious to show the world that the Soviet Union had untold riches, even though the people chose to live in poverty. Of course, for most of them it was not a choice, but a directive forced down upon them from above."

They moved on to the _Komsomolskaya_ station with its yellow Baroque ceiling, through the _Kiyevskaya_ station with its portrait of Lenin, and by the time they reached _Ploshchad Revolyutsii_ with its 76 sculptures cut into the corner of each column, he was certain. They were the object of an extensive and professional surveillance operation. He was equally certain that this had not been the case yesterday, or even this morning, so what had changed? He had spoken to Zverev – could the man be a double agent, dangling intelligence in front of Harry's nose to find out what he knew of the Soviets' information about Operation Renaissance? It was possible, yet the KGB officer had provided the Swiss with that highly classified report on the petroleum sector. Would the Soviets be willing to sacrifice such valuable information just to fool the Western intelligence services about the trustworthiness of Zverev? He did not know the answer to that. Of course, he had also spoken to Connie about his suspicions… He did not want to think about that.

They reached the sculpture of the frontier guard with his dog and on impulse Harry took Ruth's hand and placed it on the dog's nose. Her eyes flew to his and stayed there, and the air crackled with tension around them. Fire ran up his arm and ignited desire in his belly as he felt her soft skin against his. "You're supposed to rub the dog's nose," he explained, "for good luck."  
She nodded dazedly and her hand moved under his, and he let his hand slide along the smooth surface of the sculpture along with hers. He was transfixed in the moment, unable to break the contact, and they stood for endless seconds, his hand covering hers, staring at each other. Her eyes had turned a very dark, stormy grey and he wondered – would that be the colour he would see when he was joined with her, buried in her heat? She took a shaky breath and without breaking eye contact slowly turned her hand under his, and their fingers entwined. He was lost, unable to move, overcome by gratitude for this opportunity that had come so closely on the heels of his divorce, this chance to show that he was capable of a healthy relationship with a woman. And perhaps he was, if she agreed to join his shadowy world, to become a colleague in MI-5, and much, much more. It was Ruth who brought them back to reality in the end. She stepped close to him, still clutching his hand, and murmured in a low voice, "There are two other men following us."

0o0

As they sat in the train on their way to the next station, he still held her hand, and it was wonderful. She sat close to him, her arm and leg pressed against his, and he was deliriously happy. She wanted this too, wanted him with the same fire he wanted her. He slanted his head close to hers so that he could speak into her ear, certain that those around them would not be able to pick up the words over the rumble of the train. "Where are they now?" he asked softly.  
Her eyes flicked to their left, where a man was sitting close by the doors, apparently absorbed in a paper. "The one with the scuff on the left toe of his black shoes," she hazarded and looked at him for confirmation, and he could not keep the proud smile from his face. "And the other is by the doors to the right, with the three freckles on the left of his neck."  
He nodded. "Well done. Dinner is on me tonight," he murmured, buoyed by the prospect of spending more time with her, and she glowed at the praise. He debated momentarily before he spoke again, unwilling to burst her bubble, but he could not lose sight of the importance of training her properly in counter-surveillance techniques. So he added almost apologetically, "You missed someone, though."  
She looked at him questioningly, but he would not give her the answer so easily. "Remember that they don't use men only," he prompted, and saw her eyes widen in realisation.  
"Of course," she responded, annoyed with herself for the oversight, and he squeezed her hand to bring her attention back to him.  
"Don't feel bad," he said with a sardonic smile, "she's the best of the lot."

0o0

When they disembarked at _Novoslobodskaya_ Metro station, Harry pulled her along to the central hall by the hand. "This is my favourite one," he confided and his delight was infectious. When they entered she stopped and stared in wordless wonder at the 32 stained glass panels set into the sides of the pylons. They were lit from behind and the colours danced and popped, a veritable feast for the eyes. They took their time, wandering from one to the next, slowly working their way to the mosaic at the end of the platform, where they lingered even longer. "It's called 'Peace throughout the World," Harry informed her, and she smiled at the irony.  
She turned to look back along the hall, where the stained glass reflected its patterns on the marble floor, and sighed in contentment. "It _is_ wonderful," she agreed and smiled at him, "I think it might be my favourite as well." And that's when she saw her, the woman turning casually away when she looked in her direction, and realised that she had seen her before. In different clothes, with different hair, but the strange shape of the earlobe was unmistakable. She drew in a sharp breath and Harry glanced at her.  
"You've got her now?" he asked, "Dumbo?", and when she nodded he slid an arm around her and drew her close to him. His lips brushed her hair when he said, "You're a natural, Ruth. A born spook."

And she thought it the most wonderful compliment anyone had ever given her.

0o0

He took her to dinner that night, to _Praga_ , one of the most expensive restaurants in Moscow, and she was aware that most of the Russians there that mingled so freely with the foreigners were probably KGB officers. They talked about everything but the operation; their favourite cities, their dreams and future plans, and he even told her a little bit about his children. He never mentioned his wife, and she couldn't help but wonder what had gone wrong. It was the perfect dinner date until, over dessert, he remarked out of the blue: "Would you like to come and work for MI-5?"  
She stared at him in surprise, her spoon frozen midway between the plate and her mouth, and blurted, "I'm sorry?"  
"MI-5," he reiterated, watching her intently, "as an intelligence analyst."  
"Er…" she fumbled, the sudden change in topic catching her off-guard. "I already have a job lined up."  
Harry smiled. "Yes, I know. With International Translations."  
"Yes," she said, looking at him curiously now. There was something knowing in that smile.  
"I'll let you in on a little secret," he confided, tilting his head close to her ear, "seeing as you have signed the Official Secrets Act. International Translations is a front company for GCHQ." He drew back so that he could see her face. "That's why you had to do all those tests before they offered you the position."

She was dumb-struck. All this time, she had already been part of the British Intelligence community without even knowing it. Her first reaction was affront – she had been lied to, drawn into a secret world without her knowledge. "Bastards," she breathed, and Harry grinned. "What if I don't want to work for them?" she queried and he shrugged.  
"They will inform you before you start and give you the option not to take the job," he explained. "They did the same with me – not GCHQ, obviously. MI-5." Then he turned serious. "But I honestly believe that you would be wasted at GCHQ. Like I said, you're a born spook. So come and work for us. Our section is in serious need of an intelligence analyst." Prudently he did not add what else was in his mind – that he could then see her every day, and there would be no need for lies and ghosts in the relationship.  
She was watching him, and perhaps she had read some of those thoughts in his expression, because her eyes darkened and she took a steadying breath. "I'll think about it," she agreed, and he nodded.

When he took her home, he kissed her at the door, a slow, chaste kiss that promised much for the future, and she knew as she closed it behind her that her mind was already made up – she would take up his offer and join MI-5.

0o0

 _British embassy, Moscow  
10 December 1986, mid-morning_

Harry stood at one of the front windows on the second floor of the building and watched the street intently. Behind him he could hear Jools and Ruth's voices murmuring softly. The MI-6 man was turning on the charm but Ruth was not falling for it – she evaded any questions about her personal life or her relationship with Harry, and he smiled to himself.

Two days ago Zverev had got word to him that he had the information Harry wanted, and that he was ready to defect. Since then Harry had put numerous wheels in motion – he had organised with Siviter to be ready to receive the Russian at the embassy and spirit him out of the country, and he had paid Evgeny to use his extensive network to simultaneously collect Zverev's wife and two children at their home and get them out of Moscow. He knew how the Russians worked – the first thing they would do upon learning of the defection would be to arrest the man's family and try to force him to give himself up in order to save them. He had asked Ruth to be here in case they needed a translator; he did not want to miss any subtleties in the Russian's words. So now he was waiting; he had instructed Zverev to come to the embassy and simply walk in the front door. It was bold and risky, and that was exactly why he had chosen this route. The KGB would not expect it, which gave it a better than even chance of success.

As he stood at the window he checked every car, every person walking past in the street. He had taken care to lose his expanded surveillance team before coming here, but he knew that the KGB watched the embassy as a matter of routine and was probably aware that he was inside. The day was cold and grey, with low clouds that threatened more snow at any minute. Most of the pedestrians were swaddled in dark coats, and from this distance it was difficult to make out the small things that would give a watcher away. So he concentrated on gait; the way a man walked could be just as individual as a face. And he took careful note of the cars – dents, colour, aerials.

He saw a man stroll casually down the street, a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face. He was sturdily built and the scarf could not hide the fleshiness of his face. Zverev. This was it. "He's coming," he said quietly, and immediately Jools was next to him at the window. Harry nodded at the man just as Zverev paused and knelt down to fasten a shoelace.  
"Crafty bugger," Jools commented approvingly, aware that the manoeuvre was a feint to give the Russian an opportunity to check whether he was being followed. There was no-one in the street behind him, so he straightened up and continued forward at the same leisurely pace. Harry took the episode as a good sign – if Zverev was a plant, aimed at deceiving the British, he would not be so concerned about possible surveillance on him. A white Lada turned into the street and drove down the block, and Harry's eyes flicked to it. It was utterly nondescript, except for the scratch on the front left bumper. He had seen it before. He lifted his gaze and scanned the opposite windows anxiously, and they were all empty. That in itself was highly unusual, so he snatched up the binoculars from the windowsill in front of him and looked more carefully. He found it in a corner office on the third floor – the thin black barrel poking through an open slit in the window. His adrenaline spiked and he tossed the binoculars to the floor unceremoniously. "It's a trap," he called over his shoulder, already running full-tilt for the stairs.

Ruth watched him go in confusion. "What's going on?" she asked Jools, who had retrieved the binoculars and trained them on the advancing defector.  
"The Russians are watching the embassy entrance." He glanced at her with a wry smile. "With more fire-power than usual. They know something is up." He pointed to the window on the third floor. "There's a sniper with his weapon trained on our front gate."  
Concern gripped her as she saw Harry's blond head dash across the courtyard to the gate. "What's he going to do?" she asked anxiously, and Jools shrugged.  
"God knows. Harry Pearce is a law unto himself," he sniped, and she could not miss the resentment behind that statement.

Harry reached the gate and snapped at the guard, "Open the gate."  
The young man stared at him uncertainly. "I can only open it on the orders of-" he began, when Harry lunged forward and yanked the guard's side-arm out of its holster. The guard swallowed the rest of his words as he stared down the black hole of the barrel pointed squarely between his eyes. "Open the gate," Harry reiterated, and when the man still didn't move he yelled, "NOW!"  
The guard reached for the button with a shaky finger and pushed it.  
From up above Jools and Ruth watched in fascinated horror. "Christ! Bloody idiot," Jools exclaimed, "he'll get himself killed!"  
Ruth tended to agree, but she could not help a stab of admiration for the boldness of the action.

Harry was through the gate as soon as there was a wide enough gap to allow a man through. He had had the good sense to drop the gun before doing so – if the watchers saw a weapon they would shoot on sight. Zverev saw him emerge and his eyes widened in surprise, and Harry shook his head once, emphatically. The Russian immediately understood. He was about twenty yards away from the gate, close enough for Harry to see the flash of desperation in his eyes, and Harry knew what he was going to do even before he took the first step. And he also knew the futility of it. So the moment Zverev broke into a run, Harry did exactly the same, without hesitation and without thought.  
"Oh no," Ruth exclaimed up above, gripping the windowsill until her knuckles turned white, instinctively knowing that this was a very bad idea. She did not even register Jools muttering "Fuck" beside her, or that he turned and ran for the stairs.

Zverev had taken only three steps when the shot rang out, the report echoing hollowly between the buildings lining the street. Harry saw the Russian fling up his arms and pitch forward a split-second before he heard it, and fury boiled up inside. In that moment he did not think about the information that was now lost to him, but about the human life sacrificed. The Russian collapsed onto the pavement, and a red stain spread across the snow as the life began to ebb out of him.

 _tbc_


	8. Chapter 8

**PART VIII**

… _he wondered whether there was any love between human beings that did not rest upon some sort of self-delusion…_

John le Carré, _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy_

 _British embassy, Moscow  
10 December 1986, mid-morning_

Harry did not falter. He kept on running forward and reached the fallen man barely two seconds later. He skidded to a stop and dropped down to his knees beside him. "Misha," he said, forgetting any enmity there might have been between them, and gently turned the man over. There was so much blood, and the Russian's face had already turned grey. His breath came in short gasps as he tried to focus on the face above him.  
"…Family…?" he gasped, and Harry placed a calming hand against the cold cheek. From far off he registered shouts and running feet, but he ignored it.  
"I will get them out. I swear it," he vowed to the dying man, who closed his eyes in relief.  
"…lighter…" he gasped out on his last breath as his right hand twitched in the snow, and Harry noticed the cheap plastic lighter clasped between the convulsing fingers. Something slapped into the ground next to him, followed a split-second later by the crack of the gunshot, and as he ducked instinctively he plucked the lighter out of the now lifeless hand and scrambled to his feet.  
"Harry, for God's sake!" he heard Jools shout anxiously as another bullet smacked into the wall above his head, and he turned and ran for the gate. The white Lada had sped up and was bearing down on him, and Harry strained to get every possible ounce of speed out of his sinews. One of the guards had stepped through the gate to level his gun at the car, but Jools yanked him back with a curse. Harry registered the pale faces behind the windscreen of the car, the determined expression of the driver, before he turned his focus to the gate. So close… But so was the Lada. It jumped onto the pavement and kept coming and Harry swerved to hug the wall without breaking stride. Those years playing rugby now came in handy as he executed a neat sidestep and then jumped over the bonnet as the driver yanked the steering wheel over and the bumper scraped along the wall, sending sparks flying. The back of the car fishtailed violently on the snow and the left side slammed into the wall, but by then Harry was clear and through the gate. But it was a close-cut thing – too close for comfort, and when he came to a halt he was shaking with adrenaline.

The gate slammed closed behind him and the guards lined up behind it, weapons at the ready. But no-one came. The Lada was pulling away down the street, an ugly scrape running down the length of the left side, and disappeared around the corner. Nothing else moved. Jools rounded on Harry. "What the fuck is the matter with you?!" He was irate, it was the angriest Harry had ever seen him, but he was in no mood to be scolded right then. He pushed past the MI-6 man, his shoulder bumping into him, and stepped up to the gate. Out in the street Misha Zverev lay motionless, the red stain slowly spreading around him, and Harry gritted his teeth in anger. Such a bloody stupid waste, and for what? Deep down he knew the answer – for democracy, for freedom, for the western way of life – but it wasn't much consolation in times like these. He played the game, moved his pieces around on the chess board, but you didn't win without sacrificing some of them along the way. And he wondered – how many would he have sacrificed by the end of his career? And what would it cost him in the end? Would he still have some semblance of humanity left?

A black Volga pulled up to the body and a man got out. He stood over it and looked at the face, before he lifted his gaze towards the embassy gate. Vasily Popov, Connie's contact. Harry stared back, not bothering to hide his anger, his hate, and the two men stood locked in a silent battle for long seconds. Eventually another man got out and began to search the body, and Harry saw him remove a sheaf of papers from the inside pocket of the coat. He flicked through them and said something to Popov, and the KGB officer turned on his heel and moved back to the car. Harry felt a final wave of admiration for Zverev; he must have suspected that they would be waiting for him and had had the good sense to have decoy papers on him. He could feel the insignificant weight of the lighter in his pocket, and knew that whatever information it contained would be priceless. He turned to Jools. "I need to use the secure line."

0o0

When he got back to the second floor Ruth stood waiting. She had seen everything from her vantage point, knew what a close call it had been. When he looked into her eyes he could see the realisation there that she could have lost him. Perhaps she had always known, theoretically, that what he did was dangerous, but now it had become a reality, and it scared her. This was what he had tried to protect Jane from – from worrying every minute of every day that her husband would be killed, and it had cost him his marriage. But now he couldn't help but wonder – would the opposite cost him any chance of a relationship with this remarkable young woman, who he was beginning to fall hopelessly in love with? She took a step towards him but froze when Siviter steamed up the stairs behind him, still complaining loudly about Harry's reckless behaviour. "You have just put us back years in our relations with the Soviet Union!" Jools bleated indignantly and Harry lost patience.  
"Oh do shut up, Jools. We have never had any kind of relationship worth mentioning with the Soviets – they have been screwing us every chance they get. Now, give me some privacy to make a call to London."  
Siviter looked between the two of them, fuming, before turning on his heel and stalking away without a word.

There was a silence as they looked at each other, both aware how lucky they were to still be able to do so.  
"You could have been killed," she said quietly. It was not an accusation or a reprimand, exactly; she spoke like someone who had learnt a home truth – something she should have known, but that had not quite been a reality until now.  
He shook his head. "No. If they had wanted to kill me, I would be dead. The sniper had enough time. They merely wanted to prevent me from getting any information Zverev might have been carrying."  
She laughed in exasperation. "But you didn't know that for certain." The grey eyes were on him intently and there was nowhere to hide from them. She did not want platitudes or glib deflections, only the truth. He became aware of the importance of the moment, so he took his time before answering.  
"It's my job, Ruth," he said gently, "to take calculated risks. The country's interests must take preference over my own safety, otherwise I might just as well resign right now." As he spoke he moved closer to her and she reached out and took his hand, and relief flooded him.  
"Yes I know," she murmured. "But that doesn't make it easier to live with."

He closed his eyes, and Jane and the children's faces floated behind his eyelids, silent and accusing. He should set her free now, before she was also damaged by his world. All he had to do was tell her that she was only an asset, that he had been cultivating her all this time. She would be hurt and she would leave him, but in time she would heal and have the chance for a normal, happy life. Before he could open his mouth, though, he felt her fingers feather across his cheek and his eyes flew open. What he saw in her face made him want to shout for joy, and he did not say anything. He could not. In a short time she had taken over his mind, invaded his heart, and he was not strong enough to give that up. The irony was not lost on him. A few minutes ago he had put himself in the firing line of a sniper without a second thought, and yet he did not have the courage to give her up.  
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, turning his head and kissing her palm, and she smiled crookedly in return.  
"I chose to be here," she said obliquely, and he wondered whether some of those same thoughts had gone through her mind as well. It was something to ponder, but not now. Now, he needed to focus on the operation.  
He straightened determinedly. "Come with me," he said and strode into the MI-6 office.

0o0

As he settled himself behind Jools' desk and attached the gadget to the phone she looked around curiously, and he was once again reminded that she was a novice in the intelligence world. Sometimes he forgot that, because she was so accomplished already. She really was a natural, and it would be a shame for the Intelligence Services to lose her. There were going to be difficult times ahead and Britain would need its best and brightest to stand up and be counted. He lifted the receiver and dialled the familiar number, his eyes on her as listened to the clicks and scratches on the line as the call went through. Eventually Malcolm's voice was on the other end, tinny and distant. "Hello?"  
"Butterscotch," Harry responded as Ruth watched on in fascination.  
"Harry," Malcolm said after a slight pause, "we're getting reports of a shooting outside the embassy?"  
"They shot the defector," Harry explained shortly, and Malcolm's voice was sombre when he spoke again.  
"I see. …How did they know?"  
"That is the question," Harry responded, his eyes on Ruth, who had a little frown etched between her eyes. By now he knew that it signified that she had figured something out, and that she didn't like the implications. He knew how she felt. But it was time to get to the reason for the call. "Listen, Malcolm. Can you please remind Peter of the gift he needs to deliver for my daughter on the fifteenth?"  
"…Oh, okay," Malcolm responded, and Harry was aware of Ruth's gaze on him. He rang off and sat back.

Ruth smiled at him. "Is it your daughter's birthday?" she asked, but he ignored the question.  
Instead he said, "How would you like to go to St Petersburg, Ruth?"  
It took her a moment to catch up with the change in topic. "You mean Leningrad," she corrected automatically, using that city's new name under the Soviet regime, but Harry pursed his lips in distaste.  
"I prefer St Petersburg," he said, stubbornly sticking to the name that beautiful city had had under the tsars, and her smile widened. There was something old-fashioned about Harry, even though he was only thirty-three. He put value in tradition and history and disliked modernisation, and she suspected he would have been much happier living in the era of knights and tsars than this current reality. He was a man that should have been born a generation or two earlier, perhaps. It was whilst she was contemplating this that her brain put together what was going on, and her eyes flew to his. He was looking at her meaningfully and put a finger to his lips, and she nodded in understanding. She did not say anything, but he saw that she had figured it out – that what he had told Malcolm was a code for a meeting in Leningrad on the fifteenth. He removed the plastic lighter from his pocket and held it up for her to see, and the gesture was enough for her to understand the reason behind the meeting.

As they left the office he put a hand in the small of her back, feeling closer to her than he had to anyone for many years. There was a connection between them that only deepened with each passing day, each incident and development in the operation, and he relished it. It allowed them to communicate less with words than gestures and looks, and for a man immersed in this secret world that was a wonderful thing.

0o0

 _Gorky Park, Moscow  
12 December 1986_

He managed to meet with Connie two days later. As they sat on the bench light snowflakes filtered down on them from a low, leaden sky that seemed to reflect the mood between them. Or perhaps it was the cause for it. They did not waste time on niceties, and Harry was aware of a suppressed tension running through the woman next to him. That was understandable – it was her life on the line, after all, but he couldn't help but wonder; was there another reason for it? A darker, treasonous one? He still did not want to believe it, but the evidence was beginning to mount, and hopefully that cheap plastic lighter held the definitive answer. Until then he had to stall and to cover all possible contingencies.

He briefly described what had happened and Connie watched his face carefully as he spoke. He returned her gaze unflinchingly. "I think they knew that there would be an attempted defection," he stated bluntly. Connie was a smart intelligence operative, and he knew it would arouse her suspicions if he did not consider this option. "And I have to ask myself, Connie – how did they know?" It was a veiled accusation and she smiled mirthlessly.  
"And naturally you immediately assumed it must be me?" she asked. She was calm; she did not give him anything. If the situation wasn't so serious, he would have admired that.  
"I told you that I expected to have more information in a few days. I didn't tell anyone else, so what am I supposed to think?" he persisted and for a moment her composure slipped and she glared at him. There was real venom in that look and he filed it away for further analysis later. But then she took a deep breath and reined in her anger.  
"Yes, I was one of the people who could have told the Soviets," she conceded, "but I am certainly not the only one. And as the one whose neck is on the line I am grateful that you are considering all the options. I understand," she said with a small smile, "as long as you are also investigating the other possibilities."

It was a convincing performance and he relaxed slightly. She was right – there were other ways they could have known, and he fervently hoped that would turn out to be the case. "Of course I am," he promised, and some of the tension between them dissipated. She reached out and squeezed his knee.  
"Good. So what now?"  
"We should lie low for a while. Put everything on hold until I'm sure you're not in any danger. Can you manage that without arising Popov's suspicions?"  
Connie thought about it, then nodded. "I can use the incident at the embassy – tell them I want to be careful until the dust has settled."  
"All right. I'm going to try and take the heat off you by enticing their surveillance out of Moscow for a few days. I'll let it drop that I need a break after the failed defection attempt and go to Leningrad for a holiday."  
She tilted her head and watched him knowingly. "Hmm. And might the nubile young translator be joining you?" she teased and he felt his face flush. She laughed, delighted that she still had the ability to put him off-balance and his irritation with her flared up anew.  
"For God's sake," he muttered and stood, intent on marching away, and Connie relented and grabbed his arm.  
"Oh come on, Harry. Lighten up, will you?" She stood too and looked at him kindly. "I happen to think she's good for you. You're more like your old self and I'm glad about that." She squeezed his arm and added, "Welcome back."

0o0

 _Oktyabrskaya Metro station, Moscow  
14 December 1986, 23:30_

They boarded the _Krasnya Streia_ overnight train to Leningrad and made their way to their deluxe two-berth en suite compartment. The KGB watchers stayed on the platform until the train pulled out of the station, making sure he did not disembark again, and he suspected there would be at least four or more of them on the train. He didn't care – he knew that they would be followed and he had contingencies in place. But at least they would be unobserved as long as they remained in the compartment, and it afforded them a night of relaxation.

Once they left Moscow and its artificial light behind, Harry opened the screen that covered the window and looked out. The sky was clear and crisp, allowing them to view the millions of stars that flickered above. Everything was covered in a new layer of snow, virgin and undisturbed and pristinely white. A full moon was rising and Harry turned to Ruth. "Look at this," he said and flicked off the light in the compartment, and from the darkness inside they gazed upon a fairy tale. The snow amplified the light of the moon and it was almost as bright as day, allowing them to make out features such as snow-covered trees and the occasional isolated dwelling.  
"Oh my God," Ruth breathed, enchanted, "it's beautiful." The silver light streamed in through the window and turned her skin to marble, and when she looked at him her eyes were the colour of a stormy ocean.  
"Yes," he murmured, similarly enchanted, not once taking his gaze off her. Their eyes locked and held, and in a single breath the attraction between them flamed and caught fire. Conscious thought dissolved in its heat and instinct took over, and he lowered his head to hers and kissed her.

It was not a chaste kiss, this time. He was overwhelmed by desire and his lips were demanding on hers, needing more than the mere caress of skin against skin. When his tongue flickered against her lips she opened up to him instantly, meeting the invasion of her mouth stroke for stroke with her own. He groaned and his hand tangled in her hair, holding her locked to him, and she pressed the length of her body against his. Her hands linked behind his neck and everywhere her skin touched his the fire ignited and spread. There would be no backing off, this night, no nod to prudence. They would slake the deep want they harboured for each other, and bugger the consequences.

One hand skimmed down her back, lingered briefly on her hip, before dropping to her buttock and pressing her against him. His hardness was trapped between them, proud and unmistakable and she tore her mouth from his to gasp in anticipation. There was no hesitation from her, no holding back, and in that magical light he undressed her and worshipped every inch of her supple skin with his mouth. His lips glided over the column of her throat, traced a clavicle and finally ghosted over the rise of a breast to envelop the peak. She had somehow managed to remove his clothes at the same time and he sat down on the narrow bunk and coaxed her onto his lap, straddling him. With a few murmured words he encouraged her to take him deep within, to abandon any inhibition she might have felt, and to take her pleasure at will. And all the time he watched, entranced, as she moved above him, as the sweat on her skin glistened in the moonlight, and not once did thoughts of Jane, of Elena, or of guilt intrude.

0o0

He was insatiable. They had pulled the mattresses from the narrow bunks and made a bed on the floor, and lay spooned together when she was woken by a nip of her shoulder blade and a gentle tweak of a nipple. She was still surfacing when his hand travelled south and set to work, his nimble fingers stoking the embers of desire back to a blaze until she was begging him for more. He nudged a knee between her legs and entered her from behind, and made love to her with leisurely thrusts that made her moan in approval.

Afterwards they dozed again, and the second time he woke her there was a glint in his eye that had nothing to do with the moonlight. He lifted her onto the small table and pressed her back until she was half-reclined against the window, and the silvery light that streamed past her accentuated the planes and angles of his body, his muscles, as he towered above her like some flaxen-haired mystical Nordic god. This time it was not gentle; he abandoned any semblance of control and pounded into her. The last coherent thought she had was: So _this_ is what it feels like to be thoroughly shagged, swiftly followed by Oh God yes, more. _More._ She was not aware that she had spoken the last words out loud, but she must have because his eyes darkened dangerously and he buried himself deeper, harder until she spiralled into oblivion.

0o0

The next time she woke the moonlight had been replaced by weak sunlight. They were back on their makeshift bed and he was sprawled on his stomach beside her, snoring lightly. His head was next to her breast, and with every exhalation a gentle puff of air slid across the sensitive skin. Her arm was slung across his shoulders, holding him to her, and she took a moment to marvel at how comfortable she felt waking up with him like this. She knew, though, that they would soon arrive in Leningrad and reluctantly nudged him awake. He went off to the small bathroom grumblingly and she shamelessly admired his naked behind as he walked away from her. Yes, she thought, she could become used to waking up like this every day.

0o0

 _Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow  
15 December 1986_

Simultaneously, in that same weak sunlight, Connie stood waiting by Chekhov's grave. She had been summoned by Popov, and even though Harry had ordered her to avoid contact with the Russians for the time being, she had immediately accepted. Besides, Harry was off to Leningrad with his new young plaything and would be none the wiser. But Connie was worried, and she could not afford to miss this meeting. Popov came striding towards her, a tall and imposing dark figure against the white snow, and the now almost familiar thrill ran through her. He reached her side and observed her keenly. "How are you?" he asked and she smiled briefly.  
"Fine. But we may have a problem."  
"Yes." Popov looked away briefly, towards the horizon, towards Leningrad. "What did Pearce say during your last meeting?" Connie briefly related the conversation and Popov absorbed every word thoughtfully. "So he did not get anything definite from the defector," he asserted slowly.  
"Doesn't seem like it," Connie confirmed. "But he is no longer in his emotional funk, and he is suspicious. He will continue to dig until he finds the answers."  
There was a long silence as the Russian thought about this, and eventually he said, "Then I think it is time to remove him. Permanently."  
Connie balked. Harry was a colleague, a man whose abilities as an intelligence officer she grudgingly admired, who had saved her bacon once in Belfast. "Is that necessary? Can't you just have him deported?"  
Popov shook his head decisively. "He is like a dog with a bone. He will not let it go, even back in London. We cannot afford that." He tilted his head and watched her shrewdly. "He will not come back from Leningrad," he added simply, and she knew that the decision had been made.

Connie the colleague wanted to scream at the sky, to walk away from the whole sordid business, but Connie the KGB mole knew that there was no choice. She nodded once, stiffly, but couldn't help one last gesture of mercy. "All right. But give him his naughty weekend with the girl. You can do it when he's back in Moscow."

 _tbc_


	9. Chapter 9

**PART IX**

 _What do you think spies are: priests, saints and martyrs? They're a squalid procession of vain fools, traitors too, yes; pansies, sadists, and drunkards, people who play cowboys and Indians to brighten their rotten lives. Do you think they sit like monks in London balancing the rights and wrongs? ... They need him so that the great moronic mass that you admire can sleep soundly in their beds at night._

John le Carré, _The Spy Who Came In From the Cold_

 _Leningrad / St Petersburg  
15 December 1986, early morning_

Before they left the compartment Harry turned to her. "Are we all right?" he asked hesitantly, and this show of vulnerability warmed her unexpectedly. This was obviously important to him, too.  
She smiled, absurdly happy. "Yes, we are. …Aren't we?" It was her turn to become anxious, worried that she was misreading the situation, and he took a step towards her and pulled her into his arms. He gave her that smile – the close-lipped one that barely lifted one corner of his mouth.  
"Yes. We are," he said softly, and kissed her.

0o0

As soon as they got off the train Harry was aware of the watchers falling into step behind them. There would be new ones that they hadn't seen before, but it didn't really matter. They could follow him right into the bog for all he cared; they would not learn anything other than the fact that he could not keep his hands off Ruth. He looked down at the woman walking next to him and was once more overcome with gratitude. She had stepped into his world with consummate ease, and now into his bed without hesitation. He could tell that she wasn't terribly experienced in physical relationships, but she had not allowed that to inhibit her. She had let him guide her and teach her, and had given over to the pleasure with abandon. It had been good. It had been the first time in many years that he had not felt like there were ghosts in the bed with him, watching disapprovingly as he tried desperately to satisfy a woman whose affection he was unsure of. And perhaps, because of that, he could not get enough. He wanted to be buried in her heat as often as possible, experiencing those moments of emotional freedom again and again.  
"Can we see the Winter Palace?" she asked beside him, her voice bringing him back to reality.  
"Yes, we can," he agreed indulgently. "We can see whatever you want." And for the first time he became aware that he would give her anything she asked for, down to his very soul.

They went to the Intourist Hotel first to book in. The room was functional and threadbare – the only furnishings two tattered armchairs and a queen size bed. As far as Harry was concerned that was all that mattered, but he prudently refrained from voicing this to Ruth. At least it was clean; he didn't spot any cockroaches scurrying around as he switched on the light to survey the cramped bathroom. He looked back over his shoulder to Ruth. "It's not much, I'm afraid," he said apologetically, and he could swear that her eyes flicked to the bed and a faint blush spread across her cheeks as she smiled at him.  
"It'll do," she responded and he resisted the impulse to take her straight to the aforementioned bed again. She wanted to see the city and he would show it to her.

0o0

St Petersburg used to be one of the most beautiful cities in Russia before the wave of Communism had swept all before it. The Winter Palace had been the brightest jewel in its crown, a symbol of the fabulous wealth of the Russian monarchy. Tsar Nicholas was the last Romanov to reside there, and it stood to reason that it was one of the first places to be attacked once the revolution started. After the Revolution the city had been renamed first to Petrograd and then to Leningrad, and Stalin's men had set to work to remove the symbols of the tsarist era. The Winter Palace had been turned into an administrative building first and then into a museum, but not before all Imperial emblems had been removed, even those chiselled into the stonework. There was not a single gilded, double-headed eagle to be seen anywhere. The Palace's faded grandeur was representative of the rest of the city as they stood and gazed at the exterior of the building. Its immense scale remained mind-boggling, and not even the removal of its golden symbols could detract from it. The extensive courtyard conjured up visions of eras past – of horse-drawn carriages sweeping through the ornate gates and up to the entrance to deposit the fabulously dressed and bejewelled guests for the ball. Ruth's vivid imagination could picture the scene in multi-coloured detail – light blazing from every window, casting their reflections on the snow-covered courtyard and the guests as they moved up the steps and into the hall. "It must have been quite something to behold," she said wistfully, and Harry nodded.  
"Yeah. It makes you understand why the Revolution succeeded, though. Imagine having nothing to eat and to see them hold balls here every week, where the caviar and vodka flowed in unimaginable quantities."  
She tilted her head and smiled at him. "Harry Pearce, closet revolutionary," she teased and he shrugged unapologetically.  
"I have no problem with those who make their fortunes honestly in a free market economy. But these people kept themselves in luxury on the backs of the population – taxing them to death and forcing them to work in unconscionable conditions for peanuts. It is unsustainable."

They moved on to the Neva River and strolled down its banks, admiring the buildings that adorned both sides. They leant against the parapet and watched the boats go by for a while when Harry suddenly said, "How about a boat trip? They run day-trips out of the harbour into the Baltic." He glanced at his watch and added, "It's still early – if we go there now we can still catch one." His voice was deliberately casual and it raised her antennae immediately. She had wondered how he proposed to escape the surveillance for the meeting they were really here for, and now she began to understand.  
"That would be lovely," she agreed enthusiastically and his eyes twinkled at her. He knew that she knew, and he adored her for it. On impulse he pulled her to him and kissed her, not caring whether anyone saw.

0o0

The taxi deposited them at the door of a small wooden office. The sign above the door read: _Baltic Boat trips 50 Roubles_. Harry led the way inside and the woman behind the counter straightened up in anticipation. She had peroxided blonde hair and too much make-up, and the air of someone disappointed with how her life had turned out. She seemed surprised; perhaps she had not expected any customers on this winter's day. When Ruth addressed her in Russian, though, her face lit up. Yes, there was a boat available, she said eagerly, and yes, they would be honoured to take the happy couple out for the day. The weather should hold, there should not be any problems. She collected their money and led the way out the back to where an ugly but sturdy mid-sized boat was fastened and led them aboard. With a muttered apology she left them on the deck and disappeared below, and the rumble of voices drifted up from beneath their feet. A male voice joined the woman's and it did not sound best pleased. Harry lifted an eyebrow at Ruth. "Let's hope the Captain isn't drunk," he observed dryly before he turned to look back to shore. Two men lingered at the corner of the office and Harry smiled to himself. He imagined that right about then the third shadow was making a frantic call to Moscow for instructions. Finally the receptionist re-appeared, followed by a sturdy, bearded man, whom she only introduced as Captain Yuri. He seemed sober enough, to Ruth's relief, and his strong grip nearly crushed her hand when he shook it. Within minutes they shoved off and headed out towards the Baltic.

Harry moved behind Ruth and put his arms around her, nuzzling her neck, and she leant back against him, grateful for his extra warmth. They had dressed warmly but the wind quickly numbed any exposed skin. Only once they were well clear of the port did he lift his mouth to her ear. "Yuri is one of our assets. He will take us out to a tanker sitting in Finnish waters, where we will meet Malcolm. The Soviets will have the Coast Guard track this boat all the way, so when we reach the tanker we will have only a few seconds to transfer over. All right?" She nodded, impressed by the contingencies he had put in place for this operation and she couldn't help but wonder: What else had he planned for? "Until we reach the tanker, we should pretend to be having a good time," his velvet voice continued in her ear as his teeth closed over her earlobe and nipped gently, before his mouth enveloped it and suckled enthusiastically. The sensation shot straight to her core and she suppressed a moan before turning in his arms.  
"Only pretend?" she asked boldly and kissed him ardently.

0o0

The Captain veered towards the right-hand shore and Ruth watched the frozen landscape slide by. The swells were gentle and the boat rode them easily, creating a small bow-wave as it picked up speed once clear of the harbour. Harry moved up to the wheelhouse and spoke to the Captain. "You brought the people I asked for?" he enquired, and Ruth looked at him quizzically. What people? The Captain raked his eyes over his two passengers critically, then beamed. " _Da_ ," he responded. "I think we chose well – they'll never know the difference." Before Ruth could ask, the Russian pointed through the windscreen to the horizon. "There she is, the _Valtameri Matriarkka_. You'll disembark on the starboard side."  
Harry nodded and steered Ruth towards the right hand rail. "What people?" she asked as they watched the ship grow steadily bigger.  
"The Russian Coast Guard will be watching this boat. If we just disappear off it, they will know something is up. But if there are still two people on board, with our height and hair colour, they'll be none the wiser."  
She nodded, impressed. "You really did think of everything," she praised, and felt him shrug against her shoulder.  
"Let's hope so. The Russians aren't stupid. If they get the slightest sniff that I might have got anything from Zverev, the consequences would be…severe." He had chosen the word diplomatically, but she could read between the lines well enough. The Russians weren't playing around – if they suspected that Harry was in a position to wreck their counter-Renaissance operation, they would kill him without hesitation. That's how high the stakes were. She shuddered and Harry slid an arm around her. "Get ready," he instructed and when she looked up, the tanker loomed in front of them.

It was huge, towering many stories above them, its hull painted a faded red. The name was painted on the stern as they rounded it, in huge white letters. The anchor chain stretched down into the water, the links as big as cars, a rusty brown. As soon as they were into the lee of the ship, blocked from view of any following ship or observers from shore, Harry moved behind Ruth and gripped her by the waist. She saw a rope ladder dangling down the side a few metres ahead, and it looked flimsy and untrustworthy against the scale of the ship. She looked at Harry in horror. "You don't expect-" she protested, but she never got to finish the sentence. They had reached the ladder and the boat throttled right back, and Harry lifted her and threw her upwards unceremoniously. She grabbed at the ladder and thankfully held on, as Harry's voice urged from below: "Move! Up!" Her feet scrabbled for purchase and the ladder jerked as he jumped onto it beneath her. She closed her eyes and clung on, suddenly aware of the vast ocean underneath them, its icy depths ready to become her silent tomb forever. "Oh, God…" she mumbled, and Harry's voice came to her again, strained and urgent. "Come on, Ruth, move." She looked down to see him dangling precariously from the lowest rung, his feet swaying a few metres above the water, and it shocked her into movement. Her feet found a rung and she breathed a sigh of relief, and began to haul herself upwards. When she looked towards Yuri's boat again, two people had appeared on deck and stood in the wheelhouse behind the Captain, and from this distance they looked exactly like her and Harry.

It felt like an eternity before she reached the deck, her arms and legs numb from exertion and tension, and willing hands grabbed her and dragged her over the side. She stood, hands on knees, gulping in air and trying to still her trembling legs when Harry dropped over the side next to her. "Well done," he praised, grinning at her, his face flushed from the physical activity and the danger of the situation. He looked exhilarated, vibrantly alive, and she realised again – this man thrived on action, on danger. It was a sobering thought, as she pictured living in constant fear that he would not come back. Was that a price worth paying? Then again, was any price too high for happiness? Another, unknown voice interrupted these thoughts.  
"Harry!"

She looked up to see a man of about Harry's age approach them, thin as a rake and with sandy hair that was neatly trimmed. Harry straightened and gripped the newcomer's hand.  
"Malcolm." So this was the man they had come to meet, the 'techie' as Harry rather fondly called him. "This is Ruth," Harry said as he briefly laid his hand in the small of her back, and she saw the techie note the gesture with considerable interest.  
"Hello," he said with a friendly smile, "I'm Malcolm."  
She shook his hand and couldn't help but smile back; he seemed warm and genuine and she took an instant liking to him. Before they could continue the conversation Harry said crisply, "Let's get off the deck, shall we? Wouldn't want any curious onlookers to spot you." And with that Malcolm led them down into the bowels of the ship, and into a cavernous space that had obviously been an oil repository in a previous life. The smell of petroleum hung heavy in the air, but now it was brightly lit and equipped with a dazzling array of electronic equipment. "So has Harry asked you-" Malcolm began towards Ruth but Harry swiftly interrupted.  
"We don't have much time. Only a few hours," he stated and handed over the lighter.  
"Right," Malcolm said without rancour and headed to a large magnifying glass with an excited glint in his eye. He was in his element here, amongst all this technology, Ruth realised, and she smiled. Like Harry, he seemed ideally suited to his occupation, and her thoughts went back to Harry's assertion some days ago – that she was a born spook. She could feel the sense of purpose in the air, the anticipation that something important was about to happen, and it was exhilarating. Those working for the Intelligence Services must experience this regularly, and how wonderful that must be. The sense of achievement must be immense, she thought, and she realised with a start: she wanted to be part of it. She wanted to be a spy.

"I say, that's nifty," Malcolm said and they moved closer to peer over his shoulder. He had opened the casing and removed the little canister that held the lighting fluid, and beneath it was a tightly sealed package. They watched in silence as he carefully slid it open, taking care not to damage the contents, and exposed a tiny roll of film and something else.  
"What's that?" Harry asked and Malcolm picked it up gingerly with tweezers and studied it beneath the magnifying glass.  
"I believe it is a tape cassette," he said, his voice filled with admiration. "I've never seen one so small."  
"That's amazing," Ruth breathed, also impressed by the tiny scale of the apparatus.  
Harry, though, was not in the mood to admire the technological wizardry of the Soviets at that particular moment, and looked about him at the array of instruments. "Do you have anything here that could play it?"  
Malcolm rolled his eyes at Ruth and she suppressed a smile, knowing that she was witnessing a dance as old as the history between the two men. "Maybe. I'd have to tweak it somewhat, though. It'll take some time. You can look at the microfilm in the meantime," he said hastily as Harry bristled at the prospect of having to wait. "There's a microreader over there."

Harry and Ruth moved over to the machine as Malcolm began tinkering with another. "Have you ever used one of these?" Harry asked and she shook her head. He showed her how to insert the film and adjust the resolution and focus, until the first photograph sprang to life in front of their eyes. She looked up at him and smiled in delight as Harry pulled out the chair for her and leaned over her shoulder to read the document. Both were unaware that Malcolm was observing their interaction out of the corner of his eye; that he noted their familiarity and ease with each other, Harry's uncharacteristic patience and gentleness whilst instructing her in the use of the machine, and the way her eyes lit up when she looked at him. He nodded to himself knowingly before returning his full attention to his own task.

"Let's see what we've got," Harry said next to her ear and she shifted her focus to the document. It was written in Russian and she realised that Harry was waiting for her to translate.  
"It's from K Directorate, Special Operations Division," she responded, tracing her finger along the screen as she translated so that he could follow her progress. "Report from Berlin, 1983."  
Unease balled in Harry's stomach and it was on the tip of his tongue to stop her from continuing, to send her away so that she would not know of his shame. But in the end he did not. If she came to work for MI-5 she would find out eventually, and he would rather get it over and done with. Before the loss of her regard would hurt too greatly. _Too late for that_. The realisation made him close his eyes.  
"Reporting officer: Comrade Elena Gavrik," Ruth's voice continued and he steeled himself. "Report on first contact with MI-5 officer Harry Pearce-" She cut herself off and looked at him sharply, and he nodded in resignation.  
"Continue."

She was aware that behind them Malcolm had ceased all movement, and she had to resist the urge to look to him for guidance. Tension radiated from Harry and he gripped the back of her chair so hard that his knuckles had turned white. He feared what was coming, and she wished with all her heart that she could spare him from it, whatever it was, but there was no way out. So she swallowed and continued. "'Target made contact today'," she read on reluctantly. "'He is unaware that I am a KGB officer, and hopes to get to Ilya Gavrik through me. I was receptive to his advances. The situation holds promise; I believe I can ensnare him and turn the situation to our advantage.'" The next report was dated a few months later, and was even worse. "'Today I informed the target that I am pregnant,'" Ruth read, and paused in horror. Harry did not move, did not breathe behind her. "'His honour will not allow him to abandon a child; I am of the opinion that he will convince himself that he is in love with me and will take us with him when he goes back to England. All is going according to plan. I believe it will be best not to inform Ilya of any of this until after we have left – he will not let his child go to the enemy willingly. He is not as committed to the Fatherland as I am.'"

She looked up at Harry, shocked by the cold calculation behind the words, and his face was white and strained. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but she knew that now was not the time. So she moved on to the next report. It was dated March 1984. "The target is convinced that the boy is his, and today sent me instruction for our extraction. He will take myself and the boy with him to England. I am to meet him in Treptower Park on the 12th, and he will get us out of Berlin. Once in England I will eventually convince them to give me a job with my new husband in MI-5, and we will once again have access to British Intelligence. The plan has worked.'" Ruth stopped reading, and silence settled on the room, heavy and oppressive. Somewhere she could hear water drip. She did not dare look at him this time, and without a word he turned and strode out of the room. She watched him go helplessly.

Once the door had closed behind him she sighed, then became aware of Malcolm's gaze on her. Her burning need to know, to understand, surfaced again. "Do you know what happened?" she asked, and he shrugged. "Some of it. I didn't know about the boy, though." He hesitated and looked at the door. "He can't know that you heard any of this from me – he is ashamed of it, I think." She murmured assent and he continued. "Harry was seconded to MI-6 at the time, and he was sent to entrap the wife of the senior KGB officer in Berlin, Ilya Gavrik. It was a joint operation with the CIA. Neither they nor us were aware that Elena Gavrik was also a KGB officer. No wonder, because from that report it seems neither were her husband." He shook his head in wonder.  
"So she used her child as a pawn to ensnare Harry?" Ruth asked, horrified, and Malcolm nodded.  
"Apparently so."  
Ruth could not fathom it. She was pretty certain that should she ever have a child, she would not sacrifice it for any country or ideology. How could a mother be that cold, that calculating? "…And did he bring them out? To England?" she asked apprehensively, filled with visions of this Russian woman waiting for Harry back home. Or was that who he had divorced recently?  
"No," Malcolm responded to her great relief, but then added: "But not for want of trying." He smiled at her sympathetically, sensing her distress and confusion. "His CIA counterpart found out what he was planning to do and stopped him. At gunpoint." She stared at him uncomprehendingly so he continued, "Harry was married at the time, to Jane. They have two children." He paused before adding, "The marriage did not survive after that. I suspect Harry was consumed by guilt and in the end Jane could not cope with it anymore."

Ruth thought about it, everything that she had learnt about Harry in the last few weeks. No matter the façade he presented to the world, she knew that he was indeed an honourable man, who would want to do the right thing by the woman and the boy he believed to be his. And yes, she was certain it would eat away at him, the fact that he had abandoned them and left them behind in Berlin. "Is Jane – does she work with you guys?" she asked, and Malcolm shook his head. "No, she's a teacher."  
"That must be hard – if you're married to someone outside of the Intelligence community," she mused.  
"Yes," Malcolm agreed. "We're not supposed to tell even our spouses any secret details. I suspect many break that rule – but Harry would not. He is serious about the Official Secrets Act." This last bit was said almost fondly, and Ruth realised – this man, Harry's colleague of many years, admired him. She found that comforting.  
"Yes, I imagine he would be," she smiled, and Malcolm observed her closely.  
"He's a good man, you know," he said anxiously, worried that she might think badly of his friend after these revelations, and she reached out and squeezed his arm.  
"Yes, Malcolm, I know." He smiled in relief and she asked, "So what do we do now?", just as the door flew open and Harry walked in.  
He looked between the two of them, almost challenging them to say anything about Berlin, but both wisely kept their mouths shut. So he answered Ruth's question, shortly and definitively: "We do our jobs."

0o0

"I've got it!" Malcolm exclaimed half an hour later, and they crowded around him as he carefully inserted the miniature tape into the machine he had been tinkering with. The documents on the microfilm had provided nothing more significant, apart from Elena Gavrik's final report, in which she expressed the opinion that Harry Pearce remained ignorant of her status as a KGB officer, and that they could exploit that, should the opportunity ever present itself. "Let me switch on that screen," Malcolm said and leaned over to a television set. "It's actually a video."  
Harry shifted slightly so that Ruth could have a better view, acutely aware of her presence at his side. He wondered what she thought of the Elena Gavrik affair, conscious that it painted him in the worst possible light. Would it mean the end of something wonderful – something that had barely had the opportunity to begin? He simply didn't know. Only time would tell.  
"Here we go," Malcolm said, and pressed a switch.

The screen flickered to life with the following typed statement:  
 _Video report of first meeting between Comrade Vasily Popov and Agent Romashka_  
The image briefly flickered and then stabilised, and from the blurred edges it was clear that it was a surveillance video, taken from a distance. Harry realised that Popov must have been wired, and that the boffins had reconciled the audio and visual images afterwards. MI-5 often used the same procedure. It showed Connie approaching Popov in the graveyard and introducing herself. And then, straight off the bat, she said: "I am here on an operation code-named Renaissance. It is run by Harry Pearce, and the aim is to trick the KGB into thinking that you have a mole inside MI-5. Me." She handed over something to the KGB officer at that point, and added, "I want to be a double agent for you."

 _tbc_


	10. Chapter 10

**PART X**

 _The monstrosity of this, reaching Smiley through a thickening wall of spiritual exhaustion, left him momentarily speechless._

John le Carré, _Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy_

 _Valtameri Matriarkka, Baltic Sea  
15 December 1986, afternoon_

Malcolm paused the tape and they all stared at Connie's frozen face in shock. At Connie James, traitor. Harry suddenly turned and swept everything off the table next to him in fury, and the loud crash made Ruth and Malcolm jump. He never made a sound, but when Ruth looked at his face it was flushed and sweat glistened on his upper lip. He stood, breathing hard in an effort to rein in his anger, and she was thankful that it was not directed at her. This silent, broiling rage was frankly more terrifying than a shouting rant, because one didn't know quite how deep it went. It was Malcolm who broke the charged silence, stating venomously, "That duplicitous, traitorous cow."

0o0

The rest of the video did not improve Harry's mood. It consisted of Connie and Popov hammering out the details of the double-cross, and how they would bamboozle Harry in particular. At this point the Russian laughed and sneeringly referred to how they had done the same in Berlin, with great success. He offered Connie money but she refused it, stating that she was not doing it for financial gain, but for ideological reasons. Harry's face darkened even more at that, and Ruth worried that he would have a coronary from sheer unexpressed rage. When it ended, silence once more enveloped them, and the only sound was Harry's harsh breathing. He turned away and walked a circuit of the cavernous room, and the others watched wordlessly as he paced, stewing in fury. Eventually he swung back and came to a stop in front of them. "Zverev's family – are they safe?"  
"Er…" It took Malcolm a second to follow the shift in topic. "Yes. Evgeny's people took them to Kaliningrad. This ship is going there next and will pick them up and take them to Britain."  
Harry nodded curtly. "I want the very best that we can offer for them," he instructed, his voice brooking no argument. "Zverev has kept his part of the bargain better than we could have hoped. You tell Clive," he urged, and Malcolm nodded. Their Section Head, Clive McTaggart, was an old field man and he would understand.

Malcolm watched his colleague uneasily – his simmering anger was almost palpable, a dangerous and inescapable presence in the room. He glanced towards Ruth before asking carefully, "…What are you going to do?"  
Harry's gaze had settled on the frozen screen, where Connie's face was caught in an almost carefree smile, and he said in a deceptively calm voice, "What I have to."  
Ruth looked between the two men, unsure what the cryptic answer meant, and saw Malcolm swallow. She did not dare ask, aware that she was not yet one of them, and perhaps there were things she was better off not knowing.

0o0

 _16:00_

It was time to return to the tourist boat, and to Ruth's relief they were lowered down to the water on a platform this time. She had been dreading the prospect of going down that unstable rope ladder. Yuri's boat appeared right on schedule, the two body doubles firmly entrenched on deck. Ruth clung to a cable as they were lowered, and cast a worried look at Harry. He was pre-occupied and she was concerned, but there was not much she could do or say to make things better. She could only imagine how terrible it must be to learn that one of your colleagues, someone you might even regard as a friend, was a traitor. She wondered whether, on some level, the betrayal of that friendship actually weighed more with the man next to her than the professional one. He must have felt her attention on him because he turned his head and smiled at her faintly. "We are happy tourists, yes?" he reminded her, but she knew it was targeted at himself rather than her.  
"Yes," she acknowledged and smiled brightly, hoping to lift his spirits. And perhaps it worked, because he stepped over to her and put an arm around her as they stepped onto the deck of the smaller boat.

He stood with her at the rail as they made the journey back to port, and on impulse she reached up and touched his face. "I'm sorry, Harry," she murmured, and his head turned sharply towards her. There was nothing but genuine regret in her face and he sighed deeply, and just for a second he let her see his true feelings; the anguish, the hurt and the devastation he felt.  
"So am I," he acknowledged and rested his forehead against hers, letting her presence soothe him. God, how he adored her. "Ruth," he said, "will you come to MI-5? I need-" he checked himself, afraid that it was too much, too soon, and amended, "we need you. We need your dogged brilliance, your ability to find the missing piece of the puzzle." He stared into her eyes, the same colour as the vast water around him, willing her to understand what he was really asking, and her face softened and brightened at the same time.  
"Yes, I would love that," she said, and his gloved hand found her cheek as he sealed the agreement between them with a kiss.

When they reached the port again their tail was waiting for them and trailed them all the way back to the hotel. They ate in the dining room; the fare bland and uninspiring, but neither really noticed. They were chatting brightly, keeping up the pretence, but their hearts weren't in it. All the time Connie James and her treachery hung over them, dampening the atmosphere. Ruth tried not to think about the look on Harry's face when he'd said he'd do what he had to; tried not to think what that meant, and she was thankful when he took her to their room and made love to her with unwavering devotion, reminding her again that he was a man with a good and tender heart.

0o0

 _Leningrad / St Petersburg  
16 December 1986, morning_

They dutifully played the happy tourist couple the next day as well. Their first stop was the Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood, its iconic coloured onions reaching into a leaden sky that threatened to dump more snow at any minute. The Soviets had turned it into a museum and they went in and admired the mosaics and other pieces on display. Harry seemed to be his normal self, erudite and witty as he commented on the displays, but Ruth could sense an undercurrent of tension as she followed him around. It was carefully banked, hidden behind a façade of relaxed enjoyment, and she was aware that only those who knew him well would pick up on it. The realisation that she now counted among those chosen few sent a frisson through her, and she wanted nothing more than to remove the shadows that lurked behind his eyes – that had been there ever since they got confirmation of Connie James' treachery. The surveillance was still there, dogging their every step and probably listening in on their conversation with direction microphones. So she weighed her words carefully, never straying into anything remotely personal or professional.

They moved on to the Bronze Horseman, the equestrian statue of Peter the Great that dominated the Decembrists Square. As they stood admiring it, Harry tried to decide whether he was more impressed by the statue itself, or by the enormous Thunder Stone on which it was mounted.  
"Did you know this was the largest stone ever moved by humans?" Ruth asked excitedly, momentarily forgetting herself and the perilous situation they found themselves in, and Harry smiled. He did, actually.  
"Was it?" he responded, not wanting to dampen her enthusiasm. He could listen to her telling him things he already knew all day and not get tired of it. God, he really was hopelessly enamoured with this brilliant, dark-haired young woman.  
"Mm," she continued, eyes bright with eagerness to share her knowledge. "Catherine the Great had it brought here for the statue; it originally weighed 1500 tonnes."  
"Amazing," he agreed, his eyes on her, but she was so caught up in her story that she didn't notice.  
"Have you read the poem by Alexander Pushkin?" she asked eagerly, "The one that gave the statue its popular name?"  
"' _Over Neva's unending wildness, stands, with his arm, stretched to skies, lightless, the idol on his brazen horse_ ,'" he quoted, no longer able to feign ignorance, but rather wanting to delight in shared knowledge with her. She beamed in delight at this reminder that Harry was probably as well-read as she herself was. It was wonderful, knowing that they could have a whole conversation consisting solely of quotes out of classic works of literature, and never be lost for words. A snowflake fluttered down and settled on her cheek, and he reached up and brushed it away. His leather glove was cold on her skin, and yet it left a trail of fire that travelled straight to her core. "It's beginning to snow – what do you want to do now?" he asked, and the words tumbled from her lips without thought, without hesitation.  
"I want to go back to the hotel."

0o0

They barely made it through the door before he began wrenching the many layers of clothes from her with an urgency that stoked the flames of desire to an uncontrollable blaze. He only took the time to remove their coats and pull down her tights, and she helped to pull up her skirt until it was bundled at her waist, before he lifted her and pinned her against the door. She locked her legs around him and grabbed hold of his shoulders as she heard the sound of his zipper being yanked down, and then he was nudging against her heat and she gasped. It was heady – this ability she had to make him lose complete control, and she revelled in it. She had never before experienced anything remotely like it, to be desired with such intensity. She could not get enough of it, could not conceive of ever getting tired of it. But then he buried himself inside her with one hard thrust and all conscious thought flew out the door he was thumping her against with such abandon. The only thing she was aware of, besides the unbearable pleasure, was that there were no shadows in his eyes whilst he made love to her.

0o0

They stayed in bed for the rest of the afternoon, canoodling like teenagers and simply enjoying each other. Harry insisted on keeping the curtains open; they were high enough that peeping toms would not get an inadvertent show, and it allowed them to watch the snow fall on the forest of roofs below them. He made love to her again, and if she turned her head slightly she could watch the snow fall outside as he filled her again and again, the warmth radiating from the place they were joined to heat up her whole body, until she believed she could lie naked in that abundant snow outside and never be cold. By the time they left the bed to prepare to catch the midnight train back to Moscow, he was imprinted on every inch of her skin, and on every part of her heart.

0o0

"I need to make a call," he said as they moved through the lobby and veered towards the public phone in the corner. There was no booth – the Soviets did not encourage privacy; in fact, there was not even a specific equivalent to the word in the Russian language. He was aware of the man that sat in a chair close by the phone, reading a newspaper, and knew that he would take careful note of every word that was said. It was a bit of overkill, as he was certain that the KGB bugged all the telephones in these hotels where foreigners were encouraged to stay. Still, he lifted the receiver and dialled a number from memory. A female voice answered and he used his limited Russian to book two tickets for the opera on Friday. "It's a surprise for my girl," he confided, playing the giddy new lover, and it sounded like the woman on the other end actually cracked a smile. When he joined Ruth again, she lifted an eyebrow.  
"What was that about?"  
"It's a surprise," he stated with a cheeky grin and planted a kiss on the tip of her nose, before guiding her out to the waiting taxi.

0o0

Once the train was underway and they were safely cocooned in their private compartment, he drew her into his arms and spoke softly into her ear. "I believe I will have to leave Moscow in the next few days." He felt her stiffen and tightened his embrace. "I think you should come with me," he continued and she looked up at him with a relieved smile, but then he added, "You will be in danger once I go." She tried to pull away but he held her fast and put a finger to his lips, and she understood – he suspected that the compartment had been bugged. So she put her mouth next to his ear.  
"Why?" she asked and the confused look in her eyes nearly broke his heart. He had done it again – contaminated the thing that was most important in the world to him.  
"Because they know I care about you. If you stay, they will use you to force me to come back."  
He could literally see the penny drop, the moment she realised the implications of being involved with a spook. With him. She no longer had value only equivalent to her own abilities; she now also had value as a pawn in this big, dangerous game he played with such élan. Perhaps 'game' was not the right word, she realised; this was deadly serious, it was life on the edge, where each day was a gamble with death. Was this what she wanted to commit her future to?  
"Ruth," he prodded, and she knew for now there was no choice. If she stayed, she would only endanger both of them.  
"All right." As she gave her answer she tried not to think about what he might soon do that would require this sudden departure.

0o0

 _Western compound, Moscow  
17 December 1986, pre-dawn_

Evgeny waited in the shadows outside the woman's apartment, with two other men at his back. They were all dressed in dark clothes, and the car was waiting just outside the gate. She would have to leave soon if she was to make her meeting with the KGB officer, and he shuffled his feet to get the blood flowing. He needed to be ready. The Englishman had approached him a few days ago, and offered him a small fortune to kidnap his colleague. At first Evgeny had thought that it was a joke – that he wanted to play a prank on her. But it had soon become evident that it was not, and the young Russian had refused at first. But Harry Pearce was a persuasive man who knew what buttons to push, and he had simply asked, "Do you want to live under the yoke of Communism for the rest of your life, Evgeny? Because if you don't help me, that's exactly what you will be contributing to. But if you do, you might just hasten its fall. And we both know your family is better placed than most to take advantage of the chaos that will follow the collapse." So here he was, about to kidnap a British citizen, and the butterflies fluttered in his stomach. If they fucked this up, they would disappear into the _Lubyanka_ and never be seen again. He fervently hoped that the girls he had paid to distract the KGB men that routinely watched the compound gates were doing their job properly, or this would all be for nought. One of his men nudged him and he saw the door open and the woman step out. Behind him he heard a bottle being screwed open and a sharp scent reached his nostrils. He took a breath and stepped out of the shadows. "Miss James?" he called softly, and she swung sharply towards him. He made sure to hold his hands in plain sight – one of them clutching an envelope. "Our mutual friend wanted me to give you these." He fluttered the envelope. "It's circus tickets, he thought you might have use for them."  
Connie relaxed momentarily, and that was all they needed. By the time she registered that Harry had forbidden all contact with Popov, and that he would therefore not have any need to give her anything she could use on the Russian, an arm had snaked around her neck and a cloth clamped across her mouth and nose. The stench of chloroform was overpowering, and within seconds she went limp. The man scooped her up in his arms and they hurried towards the car and bundled her into the backseat. "Go," he ordered, and only relaxed once they were well clear.

0o0

Connie came to woozily, and the first thing she registered was swaying movement. At first she thought it was an after-effect of the chloroform, but she soon realised that it was not. She was in a moving car, and she was not alone. There were others present, apart from the obvious driver – men. She could smell them; the cheap Russian aftershave, the underlying hint of sweat. And onions. Why did so many of them stink of onions? She shifted and pain shot through her shoulders, and she realised that her hands were tightly bound behind her back. And so were her feet. She was trussed up like a turkey, and when she tested the binds they did not budge. She was helpless. Desperation threatened to overwhelm her but she fought it down; she would not panic. Defiantly she opened her eyes.

The young man who had approached her earlier was seated next to her and regarded her with a sardonic smile. "Hello, Connie James," he said, and then she knew. This was Harry's doing.  
"You stupid little idiot," she said calmly, "you better let me out on the next corner before the KGB finds out about this." The words did not have the desired effect. Normally the mere mention of that security apparatus was enough to put the fear of God into any Russian, but the smile did not waver.  
"Now why would they care about you?" he asked, and she hesitated. Was this a test from Harry? Did he do this to see whether she would play her trump card and give away the fact that she was a Russian asset? But then she remembered Popov's words, and decided that soon it would not matter. Harry Pearce would not be alive long enough to learn the truth. She settled back and tried to relax, but couldn't help a last dig at the little snot-nose.  
"Harry is good at that, you know – to get other people to do his bidding like little lap-dogs. But let me tell you; he will drop you like a hot potato the moment you are no longer useful to him. Besides, he will soon not be around anymore, so you better find another sugar daddy to line your pockets."  
Evgeny's expression became inscrutable, and he regarded her through narrowed eyes as he considered her words. Then he sat forward, tapped the driver on the shoulder and instructed, "Pull over at the next corner."

0o0

 _Oktyabrskaya Metro station, Moscow  
09:15_

The train arrived back in Moscow three quarters of an hour behind schedule, due to heavy snow on the tracks. Harry hefted their bags and followed Ruth onto the platform. She had been subdued and withdrawn since their earlier conversation, and he could feel the tension in his own shoulders as a result. Was he about to lose her? Was the Service about to lose her? She was beginning to feel the personal cost this job exacted; that it was not all glamour and excitement. It was often squalid, and the dirt was wont to stick to one's soul and darken it bit by inexorable bit. Would she be willing to pay that price? He didn't know the answer and neither, he suspected, did she. So he did not press her. She needed to make the decision on her own; if he tried to influence her she would only resent him for it later on. Better that she figure it out now before she was too ensnared in the intelligence world – with him – to make a clean break. He knew that for him it was too late; he was a part of this world now, and it was too much a part of him to get out. He honestly believed he could make a difference, and had long ago made peace with the cost attached to it. Still, ever since she had entered the picture he had begun to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could have some semblance of a normal home life with someone like her – someone who shared the burdens of this secret world, who understood that sometimes a man had to sell his soul to keep his country safe.

They emerged from the station and he turned to her. "I'll get a taxi-" he began, when they were interrupted by the squeal of tyres. Harry acted on instinct; he flung himself in front of Ruth and almost simultaneously there was the report of a gunshot, and she saw him jerk before he smashed into her and took them both down to the pavement.

 _tbc_


	11. Chapter 11

**PART XI**

" _The ground on which you once stood is cut away. You have become a citizen of No Man's Land. I send you my greetings."  
Closing lines of Smiley's letter to Karla_

\- John le Carré, _Smiley's People_

 _Oktyabrskaya Station, Moscow  
17 December 1986, morning_

Time seemed to slow down. She was aware of the sensation of falling, of slamming into the pavement and having the breath knocked out of her, and of Harry's weight pressing down on her. Sound appeared to be sucked out of the world and there was only the impression of rushing air in her ears, but then it came back with a vengeance. It was chaotic; there were squealing tyres, running feet, voices yelling, a woman screaming (and she did not know whether that was her or someone else), and Harry's voice, grunting in pain in her ear. Oh God, the gunshot! "Harry," she gasped, but before she could say anything else a familiar voice broke through the melee and yelled at them: "Get in! Quick!" There were feet next to her face and hands hauled Harry off her roughly, and she heard him exclaim in agony. She registered a battered Lada in the street and Evgeny at the wheel, and then she was also yanked upright and bundled into the back of the car. It shot down the street as a bullet shattered the windscreen and everyone ducked, but then Evgeny flung it round the corner and they were momentarily clear. He floored it and the car fish-tailed around another corner and shot into an open garage, where a large black Volga was idling. Ruth inanely registered the vapour trailing from the exhaust as they were rushed from the Lada and into the bigger car, and both shot out again and veered in different directions. Only then did she get a chance to take a breath and look at Harry properly, and notice the blood seeping through his shirt.

0o0

"Oh God, Harry's been shot!" she exclaimed, and Evgeny looked round from the front passenger seat.  
"How bad?" he asked, and Harry took a ragged breath. He was pale and his face was covered in sweat.  
"Could be worse," he ground out as his eyes clouded with the pain, "I don't think it hit anything important."  
"You need to go to hospital-" Ruth began, but both men interrupted her at once.  
"No!" they said together, and Harry smiled faintly and left the explanation to Evgeny.  
"They'll be watching the hospitals. Put some pressure on the wound, and I'll get somebody to look at it once we're clear."  
Ruth shook her head in exasperation, but she did not argue. She knew there was no use – they would not be moved. Harry would not be moved. So instead she shuffled closer to him and removed her scarf, and pressed it to his left shoulder. He inhaled sharply and she mumbled, "Sorry," and her eyes were big with worry for him. He lifted a hand and traced her cheek.  
"It'll be all right – it's just a flesh wound," he said valiantly, doing his best to ease her worries, and she smiled fleetingly, unconvinced. Dear God, was it always like this, she wondered? Lurching from one life-threatening incident to the next, and never any peace? How could anyone live like this?

0o0

They changed cars three more times and she no longer had any idea where they were. Still somewhere on the outskirts of Moscow, she thought, but she couldn't be sure. Evgeny had explained that the KGB would close off the city in an attempt to trap them inside, and they had to get outside the circle before the organisation had a chance to do so.  
"Can't we hide somewhere and get out later?" she had asked, and Evgeny had smirked cynically.  
"Miss," he had said laconically, "the Russians are the most patient people in the world. If you wrong them, they can wait a lifetime to get their revenge. The KGB will lock down Moscow for years if they have to, if they believed you were still somewhere in there."  
Through all of this Harry remained stoically brave and never complained, but she could tell that he was in considerable pain.

Eventually they were transferred to a refrigerated cargo container on a truck, filled with frozen carcasses. Pigs, she thought, but she wasn't sure. A man she had never seen before stepped in behind Evgeny, who grinned and said, "Very good doctor. He's never lost a horse yet."  
Ruth looked at him in horror. "He's a veterinarian?!" she asked in disbelief as he stripped Harry's clothes from him.  
"Sure," Evgeny agreed cheerfully, "but he's good with gunshot wounds. Lots of experience," he added cryptically, and she watched in concern as the horse doctor jabbed a needle into Harry's shoulder and began to dig out the bullet. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his jaws together, but even so he could not prevent a groan of agony from escaping. After a few minutes the man held up the bullet in triumph, before he proceeded to disinfect and stitch up the wound. Evgeny appeared with a clean shirt which Harry put on after the shoulder had been bandaged, and Ruth used Harry's clean scarf to fashion a sling for the arm.

A sheaf of roubles changed hand and the veterinarian disappeared again. Evgeny turned to Harry. "The first part of your journey will be a bit uncomfortable. The KGB has developed a rudimentary heat detecting device to check the containers. If there is a live body in there, the device registers the body heat. So you will travel in this refrigerated container to the train yard, and stay in it until the train is clear of Moscow."  
Ruth frowned and looked at Harry in concern. "Will we withstand the cold temperatures that long?"  
It was Harry that answered. "Yes. The human body can last in -1 degrees Celsius for up to four hours. If we keep our extremities well covered to prevent frost-bite, we should be fine."  
" _Da_ ," Evgeny agreed and stuck out his hand. "Good luck, 'Arry old friend. One day when the Soviet Union falls, I'll come and visit you in England," he said with a cheeky grin and Harry smiled.  
"I look forward to it," he said dryly before turning serious. "The package – where is it now?"  
"It is waiting for you in Minsk. My colleagues there will take you to her."  
Harry nodded, and Ruth thought she saw a shadow crossing his face. Then he handed a piece of paper over to the young Russian. "I need you to do one more thing for me. Call this number, and say this: 'Patrick went home for Christmas'."

0o0

They sat quietly, wrapped in foil sheets, as the truck trundled along. Harry was lost in thought, sunk into himself, and she did not try to coax him out of it. What could she say, in any case? She had no experience of this; of learning that a colleague and a friend is a traitor. It must be shattering. Besides, she had her own problems to consider. The last few weeks had been unlike anything she had ever experienced. There had been incredible highs and crushing lows – a veritable roller-coaster ride of emotion. She had told Harry that she would join him at MI-5, but maybe she had been too hasty. She had made the decision with her heart rather than her head, and in her experience that was never a good thing. Her gaze lifted to the man sitting opposite her, his back propped against the padded wall, and at last admitted to herself: for perhaps the first time in her life, she was head-over-heels in love. And like they say, love is blind. She had been refusing to think further than the chance to see Harry every day, to make love to him, to share his world. She had not entertained the wider implications of a life in the Intelligence Service. The secrets, the lies, the constant danger. The grime and shadiness. What would that do to her soul, if she was immersed in it day after day, year after year? Would she be able to hang onto her true self, or would she lose a piece of her identity each time she told a lie, sanctioned the death of another human being? She did not know the answer. But, God, could she give him up? Could she give up this delirious happiness, the thrill when his eyes devoured her, when he reached for her, when his need for her - yes, for _her_ \- consumed him and overwhelmed that considerable self-control of his? It was something rare and special, to be desired with such intensity, and she knew that not many people got to experience it. Her mother never did, she knew, and felt a flash of compassion for the woman she had been angry with ever since her father's death. She also knew, without a doubt, that the relationship would not survive if she left the intelligence world behind. Like Malcolm had said, Harry took the Official Secrets Act seriously and they would lose the right to share everything if she was not a part of this world.

Harry shifted and grimaced, and cradled his left arm more securely with the right. He was in considerable pain, and she wondered whether his weakened body would be able to withstand the cold for as long as necessary. She didn't have time to ponder that as the container suddenly jerked and began to sway, and their eyes met wordlessly. The container was being loaded onto the train, and soon the moment of truth would arrive. Harry lifted a finger to his lips and she nodded in understanding – for the next hour or so they would keep as still as possible, let their body temperatures drop as low as they could stand.

0o0

 _British Embassy, Moscow  
Same time_

Jools Siviter shifted papers around his desk, wondering what the hell was going on. The embassy had received reports of a shooting incident at one of the Metro stations but had been unable to ascertain the details thereof. It was being kept under wraps, which meant it was probably government sanctioned. Or rather, KGB sanctioned. He wondered if Harry might know more – he had Connnie James in place as the "mole", after all, so perhaps she could milk her contact for information. His phone chirped and he snatched it up. "Siviter," he barked, and to his surprise a voice with a strong Russian accent simply said, "Patrick went home for Christmas." The line went dead before he could respond, and it took him a few seconds to compute the implications of the words. The moment he did so, he began to swear; creatively and colourfully, for minutes on end. Operation Renaissance had gone tits-up, and Harry Pearce was on the run.

0o0

 _Twenty minutes later_

They heard the voices from some way off, and the clanging of steel doors being opened and closed. Ruth's eyes flew to Harry's, alarmed, and he tried to smile reassuringly. "They're checking random containers, not all of them," he murmured before falling silent again. They were depending on the luck of the draw, and he didn't like that at all. He preferred to be in control, to manipulate events to his best possible advantage. But when you were on the run in enemy territory, you ceded control to your adversary. It was the nature of the beast, unfortunately.

The voices moved to their container, and Harry heard a deep, rough voice booming loudly: "This one carries pigs. They are from Comrade Shevchenko's stock." The name was that of a senior party member, and Harry silently congratulated Evgeny on his farsightedness. Even the KGB would be loath to interfere with such a senior man's goods. But then another, more cultured voice said, "Open it up." Ruth closed her eyes and Harry tensed. This was it, then. His luck had finally run out. He accepted that with mild resentment – it happened to most field officers sooner or later – but he felt a spear of hot anger all the same. He had dragged Ruth down with him, and what did she have to look forward to now? Years in the _Lubyanka_ , with the KGB interrogators taking turns at her. And once they had got all they could from her, they would try to turn her and send her back into the bosom of her own country. And if she refused to be turned, they would probably kill her. He had done this to her; he should have had the courage to let her go the moment he realised he was in love with her. But no, selfishly he had held on, and now she was in this mess. He wanted to jump up and rail at the unfairness of it, to scream his self-disgust to the heavens. But he did not. Harry Pearce did not panic – it was simply not in his armoury. He would, until his very last breath, remain calm and look for a way out.

The deep voice hesitated and then said, "Comrade Shevchenko will not be happy. These are meant for export, and if the seals on the door have been broken they would fetch a much lower price."  
Cultured Voice answered coldly, "That is regrettable. But there is a fugitive on the run, and I'm sure the Comrade will want to do his patriotic duty."  
"Of course," Deep Voice responded hastily. "But you do have the option of using your fancy gadget, don't you? If it picks up anything, we'll open it. Then, at least, we can report that there was cause for suspicion. Come on, it's my job on the line here. And probably yours, too, not to put too fine a point on it."  
A long silence followed, in which neither Harry nor Ruth dared to breathe. Eventually Cultured Voice ordered, "Fine. Use the device." Their eyes met and the relief in both was unmistakable. They kept absolutely still as the footsteps circled the container – things could still go horribly wrong. After endless minutes a third, unknown voice said, "Nothing. Not a flicker on the needle," and the voices moved off. Harry closed his eyes and a sudden exhaustion swept over him. That had been too close for comfort, and all he wanted to do was get up and touch Ruth, assure himself that she was unscathed. But he did not. Crippled by guilt, he remained frozen in place, promising himself he would set her free at the first opportunity.

0o0

 _Minsk  
18 December 1986, early morning hours_

Once the train had been well clear of Moscow, Deep Voice had opened the container and ushered them out and into the adjacent one, which was packed half-full with mattresses and blankets. "You should be comfortable in here," he had commented with twinkling eyes. There had been little communication. Harry had suggested that they get what sleep they could, and they had settled down for the night.

When the train reached the outskirts of Minsk it slowed down to walking pace and the man opened the container again and informed them, "You get off here." They waited until there was an even piece of ground and hopped off. Harry stumbled, unable to keep his balance with only one free arm and Ruth put out a hand to steady him. It was the first physical contact between them for many hours and sent a shock-wave through him. God, how was he going to give her up, this woman who made him feel so alive?  
"Thanks," he mumbled as a car appeared, bumping along over the snow-covered ground. Ruth froze and watched worriedly as a man got out and walked towards them. He kept his hands well away from his body as he approached.  
"Evgeny sends his greetings," he announced as soon as he was in earshot, and Ruth sighed in relief. They followed him to the car and he turned it back towards the city, the chained tyres slipping in the snow. The sun was rising over the city, the ice crystals sparkling in its rays, and she wondered what this day would bring.

0o0

 _Industrial sector, Minsk  
Half an hour later_

They were somewhere in the industrial sector of the city, driving between enormous warehouses and billowing smoke-stacks. Men in working clothes trudged along the side of the road but no-one paid the car any attention. It halted in front of a gate in a chain-link fence and the driver briefly spoke to the guard, and the gate swung open. They drove through and straight into a cavernous warehouse, and the huge rolling door closed behind them. Once the car was shut off there was silence; nothing seemed to move. What seemed like empty crates were stacked in row upon row, creating narrow alleys that seemed to run the length of the warehouse. The driver led them along one of these, to what Harry surmised was the back-left corner of the place, and produced a key to open a heavily padlocked door. As he did so he explained to them: "You will stay here two days, then we will take you to Kaliningrad and the ship that will take you home. There is water, a toilet, some clean clothes. Someone will bring food every day."  
Harry nodded his thanks and the man handed him another key. "Your friend is in the corner office – she hasn't had any food or water as you instructed." Ruth's head whipped towards Harry and she stared at him, and he could see her horror at this mistreatment of another person. He sighed inwardly – things were only going to get worse. She was about to see the darkest part of him, and he was beginning to realise that she would not be able to accept that, to reconcile herself with being in a relationship with someone like him. He might not have to let her go after all; she would probably walk away from him of her own volition. Just for a second the knowledge hit him squarely in the solar plexus and knocked the breath from him, and his future stretched before him, bleak and solitary. Then he squared his shoulders and looked at her, and said, "I have to go and speak to Connie."

0o0

Ruth followed him into the office with some trepidation; she simply did not know what to expect. What would Harry do? How far would he go to get the information he wanted? He had already let this woman go without water and food; what else was he capable of? She had never witnessed anyone being tortured, although she was aware that it was done, and not only by the bad guys. But never in her wildest dreams did she think she would become a part of this inhuman practice, and she wasn't sure she would be able to handle it. Harry had picked up a bottle of water on the way to the office and held it out for her to open, and now he held it in his good hand as he entered.

Connie sat on a chair in the middle of the floor, her hands shackled together, and her gaze landed on them contemptuously as soon as they entered. Then it moved to the water and lingered there longingly. "Hello Harry," she said, her tongue thick with thirst, and Ruth had to fight the impulse to snatch the bottle from Harry's hand and give it to her. Harry did not respond immediately; first he took a swallow from the bottle as he took up position in front of her. Connie surveyed him – the arm in the sling, the grey pallor of his face, and smiled thinly. "What happened to you?"  
"I tripped over a shoelace," he stated flatly and she laughed, the sound hoarse and grating. Her eyes moved to Ruth as she spoke again.  
"Good old Harry – always good for a laugh." Something vindictive flashed across her face as she added, "Is that what you young things see in him?"  
Harry never took his eyes off Connie, and Ruth took her cue from him. She didn't say anything, even though she was taken aback by the venom behind the words.  
Connie continued: "I must say, she's a bit plain compared to your usual taste, Harry." She watched Ruth carefully, who had to use all the self-control she possessed not to react. But Ruth knew, deep down, that these comments would fester. "Better be careful," Connie said, directly to Ruth this time, "Harry has the tendency to destroy those who get close to him." Ruth stared back; unwilling to give this woman, this traitor, any satisfaction, but she could feel the heat push up her neck and saw a flicker of satisfaction in the bright blue eyes of the other woman.

Harry saw it too, and snapped his fingers to bring Connie's attention back to him. He took another sip of the water before he asked, "What have you done, Connie?" Ruth was aware, suddenly, of the weight of history between the two people before her. They had worked together, suffered together, and for all she knew killed together in the name of their country. That must create a deep bond between people, something to be valued and treasured. She had, perhaps, she realised, underestimated the magnitude of Connie's betrayal. The two intelligence officers stared at each other and something wordless seemed to pass between them, something that she was not a part of and could not understand.  
Connie said archly, "I got on with the operation while you moped and drowned your sorrows in a vodka bottle. That's what I've done."  
Harry waited a beat, then said with infinite sadness, "Yes. But that's not all you did, is it?" Before she could deny it, he pulled a tape recorder from his pocket and switched it on, and Connie's voice filled the room, betraying the operation to Vasily Popov. When he switched it off, the silence hung heavy in the air, and Ruth did not dare breathe. Eventually Connie shrugged, the gesture filled with fatalistic surrender.  
"So that fat worm managed to give you something, after all." It was a tacit confession of guilt, and it was as though a valve had been opened somewhere and the tension released from the office. Harry briefly closed his eyes and Ruth realised – he had hoped right up to the last that there was some other explanation. She expected to see anger, but instead there was just weary resignation. Wordlessly he handed Connie the water and turned away to collect a chair from the corner.

0o0

They sat opposite each other, and Harry did not say anything until Connie had drained the bottle. Then, once it was empty, he simply asked, "Why?"  
The water seemed to fortify Connie and she squared her shoulders. "I don't have to explain my actions," she said defiantly and at last Harry's anger flared.  
"Yes you do!" he snapped, then added more calmly, the words almost a plea, "You do to me."  
Connie glared at him and the tension was back in the room, thick and heavy. "I did what I thought was right," she said eventually, and there was no remorse. Her words gathered strength and conviction as she continued, "We're a pathetic little country, putting a fig-leaf of British democracy on the actions of a monster. We're letting the Americans ride rough-shod over the globe and we're clinging desperately to their coattails, hoping for some scraps off the table. It's pitiful."  
Harry shook his head in disbelief and she pushed on urgently, "There needs to be a counter-balancing power to Uncle Sam, you know there has to be. And we can't do it. The Soviets can."  
Harry just stared at her with a sorrow that seemed to come from the deepest part of his soul, before he replied, "You are done, Connie. There is nothing left for you now but life-long imprisonment." He stood and looked down at her for a long time before adding, curiously formally, "You are no longer a citizen of the United Kingdom," and then he took off his belt. Ruth watched in confusion as he dropped it on the chair and walked towards the door, gathering her on the way and ushering her out.

"What's going on?" she asked the moment he closed the door and locked it, but he did not reply. There was a dead look in his eyes that scared her, but before she could say anything more there were scuffling noises inside the room and then a crash, as that of a chair being kicked over. The penny dropped and her eyes widened in horror. "Oh, no. No, Harry. No!" she shouted and rattled the doorknob desperately. "You can't let this happen – open the door!"  
He grabbed her and pinned her to him, and even with only one arm he was too strong for her. She struggled mightily, aware of the choking sounds coming from inside the office as she beat ineffectually at his chest. "No! Let go! You bastard, open that door!" Tears were streaming down her face but she didn't care – she had never hated anyone as much as she hated him in that moment.

 _tbc_


	12. Chapter 12

**PART XII**

 _I have destroyed him with the weapons I abhorred, and they are his. We have crossed each other's frontiers, we are the no-men of this no-man's land._

\- John le Carre, _Smiley's People_

 _Minsk  
18 December 1986_

He held onto her until all sound from the office had ceased, and the moment he released her she retreated, putting as much distance as possible between them. Her face was a ghostly white and the horror in her eyes nearly killed him, but he didn't say anything. He just stood there, watching her with infinite sadness, aware that this was the end of the road for them. She had seen first-hand what he was capable of and she would never forgive him for it. Of that he was certain. But now, at least, she would be free. She would not want to work for MI-5 and she would have a normal life, whatever that meant. He no longer had any idea what that was. At last he scraped together the will to move and as he turned away from her, her voice came to him, dull, low and soft, but still the words cut him to the quick. "How could you?"  
He closed his eyes and breathed, knowing those words would haunt him for the rest of his days. It was on the tip of his tongue to defend himself, to try to explain, but he knew it was pointless. How could one explain what he had done to a person from the normal world? So when he answered he did not look at her, but said over his shoulder, "She was a traitor."

He heard her gasp as he opened the door and moved inside, and knew that she did not understand. How could she – this young woman that represented everything that was good and pure to him? He lifted his eyes and forced himself to look at the body dangling from the barred window – at Connie James, traitor. And also colleague and yes, friend. The bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it down, then moved forward to release her as gently as he could with only one working arm. He laid her on the floor and closed the unseeing eyes, before he sat back on his haunches. She looked so peaceful, almost as though she was only asleep, and the futility of it, the sheer waste, rushed onto him like a wave. Tears sprang to his eyes and he lifted a hand to pinch them away, before he rose stiffly and fetched a blanket to cover her. He stood over the body, head bowed, as images of his years working with Connie flashed through his mind, unaware that Ruth was watching his every move from the door. Eventually he squared his shoulders and turned away. There had been no choice; he knew that, but that didn't make it any easier. He would carry it with him for the rest of his life; another layer on the callus over his heart. It was necessary, that callus, otherwise he would be crushed by the sheer weight of the things he had done. Vaguely he wondered if it would ever become so thick that he would no longer be capable of feeling anything; no joy, no sorrow. No love. For a second he thought that would not be a bad thing, but he swiftly suppressed it. No. He would fight, with every ounce of his considerable will, to hang onto his humanity. Even if that meant it hurt so much more to lose the regard of someone like Ruth. He would bear that, and be thankful that he could still feel that pain.

0o0

Ruth watched mutely as Harry laid down the body and crouched down next to it, and pressed closed the staring eyes. She was in shock; she had never been in such close proximity to death, and she was convinced those choking sounds would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life. Someone had died in the room right next to her, and she had done nothing. No – that wasn't strictly true; she had tried, but Harry had stopped her. This death was squarely on his shoulders, and she believed, in that moment, that she would never forgive him for it. What kind of a man so casually suggested to another that their only option was to kill themselves? It was hideous. It was inhuman. How could she have got it so wrong? She could not believe that she had fallen for such a man; that she had believed herself to be in love with him. And death seemed to follow him around – there had also been the Soviet agent, Misha Zverev. And she could very well be next. The KGB was after them, and she was convinced that she would be killed alongside Harry should the Soviets catch up with them. She suppressed a laugh – hysteria was close to the surface and she was barely in control of her emotions – and to think that she had thought the spying game so wonderfully exciting at the beginning. Dear God, how naïve had that been? She was about to turn away when she noticed him pinch tears from the corners of his eyes, and it involuntarily gave her pause. At least he was not unaffected by the episode, even though he had done a pretty good job of hiding his emotions from her. But was that enough for her to forgive him? The answer was no. It was not.

0o0

 _19 December 1986, early evening_

Evgeny's people came for them in the early evening, and Harry's relief knew no bounds. The last day had been excruciating; he and Ruth had barely exchanged a word since the incident. He did not blame her; he understood his culpability in all of this and knew it was no less than he deserved. He had pursued her when he should have known better, had drawn her into his world, selfishly believing that the fact that he cared for her would be enough to shield her from the horrors of his work. It was a pipe-dream, of course. He could not shield her any more than he could any of his assets and colleagues. It was the nature of intelligence work – it was inherently dangerous and it had been foolhardy to think he could change that. That was why it was so important that entry into this world should be by personal choice – if one did it for any other reason than the desire to serve your country it would eat you alive. And he wondered; was that what had happened to Connie? Many people were drawn into Intelligence almost by accident and then simply carried on – had Connie been one of them? He would never know, now.

They were back on a train, but at least it wasn't a refrigerated container this time. He was infinitely grateful for that, as his shoulder tended to ache excruciatingly in freezing temperatures. The container was dark inside, something else he was thankful for, as it spared him from her disapproving gaze. He felt it weighing on him every time he caught her looking at him, but he did not know what to say in defence. And anyway, was there any defence for what he'd done? He felt a spear of anger and despair at the whole situation. She made him strive to be a better person, and now he would lose that. Was he strong enough to pursue that noble goal without her in his life? He didn't know the answer. The last three years had been awful, what with the events of Berlin and his crumbling marriage, and he suspected that he did not yet know the full extent of the damage it had done to him. He fleetingly wondered whether he should walk away while he still could, while he still recognised himself in the mirror each morning. But he dismissed the thought almost as soon as it came up. He never quit, and to do so now would be especially cowardly. There were people to protect, the Realm's interests to defend, and he was ideally suited to this task. And besides, it was the only way he knew to honour the sacrifices of those who had served with him – Bill Crombie and all the others that had given their lives.

He heard a scuffling noise in the darkness as she shifted her position, and then she sighed deeply. The sound was weary and forlorn and made his heart ache. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the desire to reach out to her, to comfort her in some way. Regret washed over him - they could have been so good together; side by side in both their professional and personal capacities. And before he could stop himself he was speaking. "Ruth?" he asked into the darkness, tentatively, and felt her attention focus on him. She did not say anything, but he could sense her anticipation, and it encouraged him. But what to say? He wanted her to know that he still loved her, that he wished more than anything to have a future with her, but he couldn't exactly blurt that out without preamble. That would be too much after Connie's death. So instead he said, "If you still wish to join MI-5 I'll-"  
"Oh my God!" she interrupted, incredulous, and he stopped talking, finally defeated.

There would be no future for them.

0o0

 _Kaliningrad harbour  
20 December 1986, early morning hours_

The container was offloaded and they waited, not daring to speak, for what felt like hours. Harry strained his ears and after a while all activity around the container seemed to cease. A couple of minutes later footsteps approached and he tensed, ready for any eventuality. The door swung open to reveal a pitch-black sky. There were no stars; it was overcast again and there was a definite bite in the air. Yet more snow awaited the country. It was turning out to be one of the coldest winters in recent memory. The man shone a torchlight into the container, aiming it at the floor so as not to blind them. "Let's go," he instructed in a soft voice and Harry stepped out carefully, alert for any hidden danger. Ruth followed on his heels, her face a pale oval in the weak light. The man produced a sheet from his pocket and shone his torch on it. "This is a map of the harbour. We are here, in the container depo," he said pointing a gloved finger at a red X on the map. "The _Valtameri Matriarkka_ is berthed at quay 17, here." A route was mapped out from one cross to the other, and Harry studied it. "You'll have to find it on your own," the man said, "I need to get back to my post. Be careful," he added, "the KGB has been making surprise security sweeps the last few days, so there might be agents wandering about in the dark." He smiled, a brief white flash of teeth in the darkness, and handed Harry the map. "Good luck." With that he vanished and they stood alone, listening to his receding footsteps.

Ruth looked around – they were in the midst of a city of containers, with narrow alleys running between the stacks.  
"We need to head north," Harry said in a low voice and she looked at him blankly. She could barely tell which way was up in the dark - north was a definite impossibility. So she merely nodded and followed him when he set off in a particular direction, making sure she stuck to him closely enough not to lose him. Her heart was beating fast and her muscles tensed; the situation was fraught with danger, and they were as good as rats in a maze among these containers. She looked at the silhouette of the man in front of her; his movement was sure and light-footed in the gloom, and he radiated a focussed calm. It served to ease her own nerves. Harry thrived in situations like these – he rarely panicked, and that gave them a chance. No matter how much she might despise what he did to his colleague, she could not help but admire his assuredness under pressure, his braveness in the face of danger.

Suddenly a voice laughed close to them, and Ruth froze and swung sharply towards it. Whoever it had been could be no more than two or three rows of containers away from them and she waited, tuning her ears for movement from that direction. There was nothing and she relaxed, but when she turned back in the direction they had been moving, Harry was gone. She was alone. Panic flooded her and she strained to pierce the darkness, to spot any movement ahead of her. But there was nothing. She did not dare to call out and hesitated, uncertain what to do next. Should she continue on, hoping he had not turned down any of the alleys that crossed their path at regular intervals? No, she decided; she would be hopelessly lost within minutes. Better to stay put and let Harry find her. She heard a soft footfall behind her and spun around, a smile of relief on her face. "I thought I'd lost you-" she began, but then she realised that the shape in front of her was all wrong. It was too tall and too broad. It was not Harry. Oh, Christ. She barely had time to formulate that thought when a hand clamped across her mouth and she was dragged down a side-alley.

0o0

Harry heard the laugh and instinctively sped up. It took him a few seconds to realise that he could no longer hear Ruth behind him, and glanced round. Nothing. Then, to his horror, he heard a scuffle and a choked-off cry of alarm. _Oh, no. Ruth_. He hastened back to where he had last seen her, every sense sharpened. A dull metallic sound rang out somewhere to his right, and he veered towards it. He was certain she would put up a fight – Ruth was no quitter, and he gambled on the sound being the result of a kick-out by her. He kept his eyes open for a possible weapon, but he could not spot anything useful in the gloom. He heard grunts up ahead, and then a choked-off groan of pain. Good. She was keeping her assailant busy; that would give him a better chance. He crept forward cautiously and peered around the corner, and his heart nearly stopped. Ruth was in the clutches of a large man, who had one hand clamped over her mouth whilst he tried to pinion her flailing arms to her sides with the other arm. She was struggling mightily, kicking out violently even though she wasn't really impacting on him. Harry was overwhelmed by a surge of affection for her, by a need to protect her, and he did not hesitate. As he rushed forward he yanked off the make-shift sling, ignoring the resultant stab of pain in his shoulder. The man's back was half-turned to him as he wrestled with the struggling woman and he did not notice Harry until it was too late. With a strength borne of desperation Harry jumped him from behind, slinging his good arm around the man's neck and pulling it backwards. He simultaneously clamped his other hand over the mouth to prevent any call for help and it was a good thing, too, because he felt the rush of air against his palm as the man roared in surprise.

Ruth heard the muffled scream in her ear and then she was suddenly released, and she jumped away. Her foot caught in the snow and she stumbled to her knees, and looked up to see the two men locked in a desperate struggle. Harry had come for her, and in her gratitude she momentarily forgot about Connie and her anger towards him. He had risked his own safety to save her – he could have left without her, but he did not. And she realised again; he was an honourable man, for the most part. Her assailant was bigger than Harry, but he was forcing the man's head ever further back to keep him off-balance. As soon as he felt the man was sufficiently unbalanced for the manoeuvre to work, he swept his legs from under him. As they went down in a heap he used the second of surprise to turn them, so that he fell on top of the man, and he heard the breath whoosh out of him. Only then did he remove the hand he still had clamped over the mouth, and instead used it to force the man's face into the snow. He could feel the blood running down his arm and knew that he had torn open the gunshot wound again, but he ignored it. All his energy was focussed on keeping Ruth's assailant pinned down, to keep his face buried in the snow. After what felt like an eternity the body below him began to convulse, and he tried not to think about Ruth watching him kill yet another human being. Eventually all movement ceased and he slowly released his grip. He was shaking from the effort and, he realised belatedly, the pain in his shoulder, and began to struggle to his feet wearily. And then, to his surprise, Ruth was there, heaving a shoulder underneath his arm and helping him up.

"You all right?" he gasped and she nodded, then realised he couldn't see the movement in the dark.  
"Yes. You?"  
He grimaced in pain. "Dandy. Never better," he said laconically and began to steer her away. "We need to hurry now. Once they find him…" There was no need to finish the thought – she could picture it all too clearly. There would be men swarming all over the harbour, hunting them in every nook and cranny. And dogs. Somehow she was certain there would be dogs, and she could practically already hear the baying behind her. So they hurried on, supporting each other, only intent on survival. The other things between them could wait, and hopefully there would be time later.

0o0

They reached the ship without further incident, and Ruth had never been so happy in her life to see a rusting hulk of steel towering above her. The gangplank was down, but there was a man standing next to it, and he had a gun at his side. She hung back but Harry pulled her forward. "He should be one of ours," he murmured as they stepped into the pool of light in which the man stood.  
"Should?" Ruth said, alarmed, but by then it was too late. He had seen them and whipped the gun up into a shooting position.  
"Jelly babies," Harry announced out of the blue and she stared at him, wondering whether the exertion and the blood loss was beginning to affect his mental faculties, but then the man lowered his gun and waved them up the plank. He followed them up, moving backwards with the gun at the ready to cover the rear.  
"What is it with you guys and the sweets?" Ruth couldn't help but ask, and Harry shrugged and grinned.  
"Ask Malcolm – he's the one who chose the codes."  
And then they were on the ship and surrounded by people, and moments later she felt the deck begin to throb beneath her feet as the engines rumbled into life. They had made it, she thought giddily; they had made it out alive against all the odds.

0o0

 _Valtameri Matriarkka  
21 December 1986_

They had rounded Denmark and were well into the North Sea by the time she found a moment alone with Malcolm. Until then there had been debriefings with men she did not know, and she had not seen Harry since their arrival on the ship. He had been ushered away by the ship's doctor and, Malcolm now informed her, sedated to repair the damage to his shoulder. "He's going to have a nasty scar," he said, and just for a moment Harry's naked torso flashed before her eyes, painted silver by magical moonlight and glistening with sweat as he towered above her. She swallowed and the images were replaced by his face, an expressionless mask, as he dropped his belt on the chair in front of Connie.  
"He forced her to kill herself," she blurted, grateful to finally get the words out and off her chest. All through the debriefings she had refrained from saying it, had claimed no knowledge of what had happened in that room between the two intelligence officers. She wasn't sure why – perhaps, despite everything, she wanted to protect him.  
Malcolm watched her knowingly, not saying anything at first. "You're angry with him for that?" he asked, and she looked at him in shock.  
"Of course! And so should you," she insisted angrily, and Malcom smiled. The girl had spirit, and he could see why Harry had been attracted to her.  
"No," he said, as gently as he could, and she stared at him in confusion. When he continued he looked her squarely in the eye. "Connie and I were friends. I knew her well. She wasn't afraid of many things, but one thing she could simply not abide was confined spaces." He watched her to see if she understood, and when she said nothing he continued. "What do you think would have happened to her if he'd brought her out with him? Life imprisonment, that's what. She would have gone mad. No, he didn't force her to kill herself – he gave her a chance to be free."

Ruth absorbed that. She wasn't sure she understood a world in which you were set free through death, but obviously it made perfect sense to the man standing before her. It was the world he and Harry lived in every day, and in which she had shared for a few weeks. A few exhilarating, horrifying weeks, and she knew on some level that the experience had changed her forever. She wasn't quite sure, yet, whether it was for better or for worse. Only time and distance would tell.  
"What will you do now?" Malcolm asked, as though he had read her thoughts, and she looked at him and smiled sadly.  
"I don't know."

 _tbc_


	13. Chapter 13

**Epilogue**

" _George, you won," said Guillam, as they walked slowly towards the car._  
" _Did I?" said Smiley. "Yes. Yes, well I suppose I did."_

John le Carre, _Smiley's People_

 _22 June 1987  
Outskirts of London_

Harry drove back from Leeds, fuming. The race riots he had been predicting for weeks now had finally erupted the day before, and he had been caught squarely in the middle of it. There were the beginnings of a spectacular shiner to show for his troubles, not to mention a smashed windscreen on the car. He'd had to hire another one to drive back to London. The majority of his ire was directed towards Special Branch, who had applied the match to the dry tinder of tension by beating a young black man excessively. He had warned them – had informed them that the black youths knew the Police was using the sex shop for surveillance, but the plods had not heeded his warnings. And now there were running battles on the streets of Chapeltown and millions of pounds of damage had been done. And to top it all, the sex shop had been burned to the ground.

MI-5 should have known about the high level of threat much earlier, of course. There had been a myriad signs, but they had been disparate and scattered through a large number of agent reports, and because the section did not yet have an intelligence analyst, they had missed it until it had been too late. So he was also angry at himself for not seeing the links earlier. But then it wasn't really his job to sit and read every report that came in and look for links – that was an analyst's job. And they did not have one. The thought deflated his anger and a feeling of melancholy settled over him. They did not have one because he had messed things up with Ruth.

He had not seen or spoken to her since their return to England. By the time he had woken from the anaesthetic she had left the ship, and he had taken that as a sign. She obviously could not forgive him for what he had done to Connie, and he understood. He knew that normal people did not go around killing people, and he saw it as a good sign that he still recognised that. So he couldn't blame her, and had resolved to let her go. He had not looked for her or tried to find out what she was doing now. He hoped that she was happy, and he continued to mourn the loss of her regard, which had become so important to him in those short, intense few weeks in Moscow. As he pulled up in front of Thames House he determinedly banished all thought of her; there would be time enough to remember the feel of her skin under his hands when he lay awake at night, struggling to sleep. But now he had to focus on the job at hand. As he stepped through the pods he immediately looked for Malcolm, who took one look at Harry's shiner and thunderous expression and muttered, "Oh dear." Harry tossed him the keys of the rental.  
"Get someone to return the car and fetch ours once the windscreen has been replaced," he barked and looked around. "Where's Clive?"  
Malcolm nodded towards the glass office where their Section Head was installed behind the desk and watched as Harry marched straight over and launched into a tirade against Special Branch. He suppressed a smile – some things never changed.

0o0

Ruth paused in front of her new place of work and looked up at the imposing façade. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach; she was about to start a new chapter in her life, one she had thought long and hard over before making up her mind. But once she had, she had determinedly banished all doubt. She was twenty-four; and that was too young to already be burdened with regrets, with if-onlys. Harry's face flashed before her and she sighed; he had proven much harder to forget than she had thought. Oh well. She could not stand on the pavement forever; eventually she would have to go in and meet her new colleagues. So she squared her shoulders and stepped inside.

0o0

Harry was mid-rant when Clive's gaze slid beyond him, towards the pods, and he interrupted with relief. "Ah! Our new intelligence analyst has arrived," and with some alacrity he abandoned Harry, who swung around with an annoyed scowl, only to meet a pair of very familiar grey eyes. Time stopped. There was a strange noise in his ears, like a rush of wind, and he belatedly realised it was his own breath which had sped up involuntarily at the sight of her. Time and distance had not dampened his feelings for her, and they all came rushing back at this first sighting and threatened to overwhelm him. _She had come_. He cautioned himself not to make assumptions; her taking up the analyst position did not mean she was coming back to him as well, but he could not squash the hope that flared in his chest. He would take whatever she was willing to give him, whether that meant being mere colleagues or something more intimate. He was just happy to be in her presence once more. Dazedly he followed Clive out of the office to join the cluster of people that had gathered around the new arrival.

Clive introduced her to everyone, and Malcolm had a huge smile on his face as he welcomed her warmly. When it was Harry's turn, their boss hesitated fleetingly and then said, "And Harry you already know, of course."  
Ruth nodded and smiled bashfully. She could feel a blush push up her neck as she mumbled, "Hello, Harry."  
"Ruth," Harry responded, ineloquently. He cast around desperately for something more, something suave or funny; hell, he would settle for anything borderline intelligent. But nothing came to mind. She had caught him totally unawares, and her demure beauty still took his breath away. God, he'd missed her. The silence was about to become awkward when a phone rang shrilly, dividing the room's attention away from them, and he was grateful for whatever national calamity had caused the interruption. "How have you been?" he finally managed, once everyone else had stepped away, and she smiled, a touch wryly, he thought.  
"Good," she responded. "You?"  
"Good," he echoed. "Busy. You know how it is." Christ. Could things be any more awkward? He didn't think it possible.  
She nodded, her gaze on his black eye, but before she could ask Malcolm yelled for him. He hesitated, unwilling to leave her side so soon, and asked tentatively, "A drink tonight? With the others, to welcome you," he hastened to add, lest she thought he was propositioning her the moment she put her foot through the door.  
"Oh, er, all right," she agreed and he grinned happily. Suddenly, all those gloomy clouds that had seemed to be gathering over him had brightened. He would look forward to it all day.

0o0

 _Cricketers pub, London  
Evening_

The day had simply flown by – the race riots in Leeds meant there would be no easing into the new job for Ruth. She had been thrown straight into the deep end, and had barely had time to unpack her things at her new desk before Clive McTaggart had plonked a huge stack of files in front of her. "This is everything we have on the riots. Go through it, see what you can cobble together. We need something to appease the leaders of that black community," he had instructed before disappearing with Harry at his heels. On their way to a bollocking from Home Office, according to Malcolm. She had not seen Harry for the rest of the day, but then she had barely lifted her head from those files, eager to do well in her first assignment. There was a charged atmosphere inside the room, and everybody seemed to be purposefully busy, and she adored it. She felt right at home. They were all busy with matters of national importance, trying to make a difference, and that felt good. There was an easy camaraderie between the officers and she had immediately been drawn into this. In some ways, it felt like she had finally found her place in the world, the place where she fitted perfectly into a space that had been vacant until her arrival. The realisation brought her up short and she had taken a moment to look around her, to appreciate it and to be grateful for it. And when, towards the end of the day, she had found something, some nugget of information that everybody else had missed, it felt like the best day of her life.

And now she was ensconced in the pub with her new colleagues, listening as they teased each other and entertained her with their war stories, and knew that she had made the right decision. She would be valued here, amongst these people; her social awkwardness and shy nature would not matter one iota in this milieu. They simply accepted her as she was, perhaps because they had more important things to worry about than popularity contests. Whatever the reason, she was grateful. The only dark cloud on her horizon was Harry. He and Clive had not yet joined them – apparently they were still locked in talks with Special Branch and the Home Secretary, but had sent word that they would come over as soon as they were done. They would have to talk, sooner or later, and she dreaded it. At the very least she felt that she owed him an apology, but further than that she was stumped as to how to approach the pesky issue of their relationship. They seemed to be particularly bad at direct communication, rather relying on the innate connection between them to communicate their feelings. But surely that was fraught with danger – there were bound to be misunderstandings. No, there would have to be some straight talking so that they both knew where they stood, and that would not come easy.

She sighed worriedly, and Harry chose that particular moment to walk through the door, Clive at his side. His eyes found her immediately and even across the smoky interior she saw them soften. This was going to be even harder than she had thought. As soon as they joined the group they were each handed a drink, and Clive made an impromptu speech to welcome her officially to 'the clan', as he fondly referred to the Section. After that the conversation resumed without missing a beat, and she did not get a chance to speak to Harry. Every once in a while she would catch him looking at her, and when she did so he would avert his eyes somewhat guiltily. She did notice, with interest, that he nursed only one glass of whisky all night.

0o0

 _21:53_

Eventually the group began to disperse as people said goodnight and drifted home, and she found herself on the pavement outside the pub with Harry and Malcolm. The techie cast a shrewd eye from one to the other before briskly saying goodnight and disappearing around the corner, and finally they were alone. Harry was the first to step into the breach. "Can I give you a lift home?" he asked cautiously, indicating the car parked at the curb, hoping once again that she would not get the wrong idea. And when she hesitated his heart sank.  
"Er… I was going to take the bus," she responded and he stared at her in disbelief.  
"At this time of night?! Don't be ridiculous! It'll be full of weirdos and drunks."  
She suppressed a smile; still the gentleman, as ever. It brought back memories of the first time she had met him and she said, unable to resist, "I can look after myself."  
He immediately picked up on the reference and smiled wryly at her gentle teasing. "Of course you can. But that doesn't mean that you should have to," he played along, and she could no longer suppress her own smile.  
He took a step towards her and said gently, "Let me take you home, Ruth. I promise my intentions are nothing more than to see you there safely."  
So she nodded and let him open the car door for her.

0o0

The first part of the journey passed mostly in silence, and she stole furtive glances at his face as he concentrated on the road. As she did so she could not keep the memories at bay, and their time together in Moscow played before her eyes. She felt again the warmth of his gaze as he looked at her with adoration, the ignition of desire the moment he touched her, and the sensation of falling off a precipice as he took her over the edge and into oblivion. She remembered the long nights in her apartment as they pasted shredded documents together, simply talking and getting to know each other, and his expert instruction as he taught her how to spot a tail. She remembered his intelligence, his humour, his passion and his honour, and she was momentarily overwhelmed by it all, by his close presence, his smell. He was here before her, still the same man she had been so angry with, and yet not. She saw him more clearly now, more objectively, maybe, after the six months of separation and the intelligence training she had undergone, and she knew, deep down, that Malcolm had been right. Harry was a good man - an honourable man doing the best he could under impossible circumstances.

He pulled up in front of her house and got out to see her to the door before she could object. She was fully intent on simply saying good night and going inside, but then she made the mistake of looking up into his face. As she did so she caught a fleeting look of desire so intense it took her breath away, before he hid it from her by taking her keys from her hand and opening the door for her. "There we are – safe and sound," he said with false joviality as he handed the keys back, and the streetlight highlighted the contrasts in his face and turned the shiner an even darker black. Before she realised what she was doing, she was reaching up and touching the dark skin gently, surprising them both.  
"Does it hurt?" she asked softly but he couldn't answer; he had stopped breathing at the first brush of her fingers. And once she had started touching him, she simply could not stop. Her fingers trailed down his cheek and came to rest on his shoulder, before she flattened her palm over his shirt, in the spot where he had been shot. "And this?" she breathed, "Does that still hurt?"  
His chest rose and fell under her hand as his breathing sped up and his fingers flexed involuntarily as he fought the urge to take her into his arms. "Ruth," he said raggedly, the word a plea, but he was uncertain whether he was asking her to stop or to continue and she laughed, a low and surprised sound.  
"I was going to tell you that we should just be colleagues," she admitted as her hand travelled to his open collar and she rested one finger against his hot skin, barely touching. He was staring at her, trying to make sense of the conflicting signals she was giving him, and his eyes were a glittering black in the evening light. He did not dare speak, lest he break the spell they were under, and waited for her to continue. And she did. Thank God, she did. "But now…" she said, her voice trailing off, and he could not take it any more.  
"But now?" he asked, his voice low and urgent, and her hand fisted in his shirt.  
"Now I think I want more," she said simply and he finally let go of his self-restraint. His hands rose and came to rest on her hips, and nudged her closer to him.  
"Mm. Like colleagues with benefits?" he asked, his mouth inches from hers, and her gaze fell to those full lips as though hypnotized.  
"Yes. Colleagues with benefits," she agreed breathlessly, and then he was kissing her.

She took him to her bed without hesitation, and when he buried himself inside her their eyes met and held, and what neither of them would yet dare to say out loud was plain to read in that look. That this was more than a mere benefit, much more, and this knowledge would be enough until the day they were ready to admit it.

 _Fin_

 _Thank you for reading._


End file.
